Night and Day
by Canidae
Summary: An expansion on the implied-but-untold story of Gale and Madge.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note**_

**Disclaimer First****: I obviously do not own the Hunger Games franchise. If I did, I would hardly be publishing here.**

**Explaination Second:**** As an out-of-practice writer, I'm looking for an exercise to get my brain going again. Rather than frustrate myself with my own original work, I am taking a few of someone else's characters out to play for a while. While thinking outside the box is my ultimate creative goal, thinking creatively inside one is a good primer. Also, this story will be written from alternating points-of-view; I dislike labelling sections "X's POV" or "Y's POV" because I believe it insults my readers' intelligence. Further, if I need to tell you who is speaking, then I have failed as a writer.**

**Apology Third:**** There is a lot of "shipping" in fanfiction, so I guess the basic premise isn't all that original. However, I find small comfort in 1) the interesting possible dynamic between Gale's and Madge's characters, who had such potential but were left ultimately undeveloped, so there is the possibility for originality, 2) the existence of quite a few other Gale-and-Madge stories, proving that I am not entirely alone, , and 3) the fact that I can publish anonymously under a pen name, so if it turns out badly anyway no one will really know. :)**

**Finally, Request Fourth****: If you like what I am doing, please kindly take a moment to review and let me know to continue.**

**...**

"Pretty dress." The moment the words come out, I wonder privately at my complete and deliberate lack of manners. I'd swat any of my siblings if they behaved that way. My mother would swat me, if she were here to hear it, despite the fact that I've long been twice her size. Generally, I've always subscribed to the rule _if_ _you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all, at least in public_. It's a practical kind of rule, and I'm a practical kind of person; keeping your mouth shut makes your life a lot less problematic. The un-nice things – the sarcastic, mean, cynical, angry, bitter, and treasonous things – well, there's a time and a place. Alone with Katniss in the forest. Chatting up Sae in the Hob.

Not Madge Undersee's back porch. To her face.

Katniss at least has the grace to look annoyed at me as Madge falters for a split second. A tiny, infinitesimal part of me almost feels bad, both because it is rude enough that Katniss (who usually approves of the sarcastic, mean, cynical, angry, bitter and treasonous things I say) disapproves and because Madge did nothing to deserve it besides open the door. However, my pride gets me over that. I will not pity the mayor's daughter. Even if it's for something that_ I_ said.

"Well, I want to look nice if I'm going to the Capitol, don't I?" she answers with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

I keep my face carefully set as she pays Katniss for the pail of strawberries. I want for a moment to throw another cutting remark her way. _Yeah, like you'll ever get Reaped. Your name probably isn't even in the damn ball_. Except there was nothing sarcastic, nothing mean-spirited, nothing condescending in her tone. If anything, she sounds sad. Hurt, even. If I'm willing to be fair I'd have to say she has the right, but I'm not, so I push the thought away. Besides, it'd do her some good to hurt a little. But it shuts me up.

"Good luck," Madge says, and it is clear that she's addressing both of us. And just to twist the knife little more, she's genuine. I'm an ass, and she still wishes me luck. Not just Katniss, but me, too. It irks me. See what I mean about keeping your mouth shut? Hating Madge just got a little more complicated.

"That wasn't necessary," Katniss says flatly as we walk away. I make a noncommittal noise in response, and she lets it go. Which is fine with me. I don't want to dwell on the fact that even though Madge was nice to me, it doesn't mean a damn thing – just that yes, she is _that nice_, which is _infuriating_. I don't want to dwell on that fact that the comment on the dress wasn't entirely snide. Or that it wasn't entirely about the dress. Or that no matter how _nice_ she is, she'll never, _ever _look at me the way I look at her.

….

I don't even bother to take the strawberries to my father like I always do; instead I plunk them down on the kitchen table like a bucket of rocks. I march directly through the parlor and up the stairs to my bedroom, because I will be _damned_ if I let any of them – my father, the Head Peacekeeper, the imported Capitol _idiots_ milling about my home – see that _he made me cry_.

After I lock the door behind me I turn to the full length mirror that hangs on my closet door. I inspect my white dress critically, then my hair (which I had for once _styled_ instead of pulling it into a plain ponytail), then my face (onto which I had actually dusted a fine layer of _makeup_, something that I've done few enough times in my life that I can count them all on one hand). Thankfully, the image blurs as the tears well so I can't see so clearly the ridiculously pointless effort I had put into myself this morning. Trying so hard to be beautiful and almost believing it until those silver eyes settled on me with nothing more than thinly-veiled contempt. Not even thinly-veiled, really. I sink to the edge of my bed, weeping as quietly as I can.

I think I ought not be so bothered by his scorn. After all, he doesn't realize that my family's large house is a glorified hotel; if it weren't for the fact that the Capitol's so-called ambassadors would never deign to stay in anything smaller or plainer, it would be no different from the other government-assigned homes in town. He doesn't realize that everything in this house is drenched in blood, that most of the things in it were supplied by the Capitol, and the things that weren't (including his overpriced strawberries) were purchased with a paycheck signed by Snow. He doesn't realize that I have a ghost for a mother. He doesn't realize the risks my father takes. He doesn't realize that they could deliberately draw my name on Reaping Day if they found out.

I breathe deep and hard for a moment to quell the tears, blot my eyes carefully clean, smooth my dress and hair, and wipe my runny nose in a most unladylike fashion on the nightdress I had taken off this morning. _Ha, if only he could see me now_, I think with half-hearted bitterness. _Snot on my pajamas._ I practice talking to my mirror to make sure my voice doesn't crack. "Thank you, Daddy. Good morning, Mr. Cray. Your pink hair is lovely, Ms. Trinkett." This last one is tough to say with a straight face, but at least I'm not crying any more.

When I come downstairs again, I put on my best winsome smile and try my very hardest to be charming to a roomful of people I can't stand. Luckily, I'm the mayor's daughter and not the mayor, so they have little use for me and nothing especially substantial to say. A tall man with pale green skin and jewels in his teeth thanks me for the fresh berries that he and his cohorts have just polished off, and I assure him that it was my pleasure while I leave out that fact that they were firstly not for him and secondly _illegal_. Peacekeeper Cray watches me a little more carefully than necessary, which makes me slightly uncomfortable. I try not to stare at her candy-colored beehive as Effie Trinkett tells me that I look _fabulous_ in my dress and that her tribute stylists would _love_ to have someone like me to work on, which makes me slightly more uncomfortable.

The old clock by the staircase chimes noisily, and everyone is whipped instantly into a frenzy because it's finally time to go down to the square. I'm relieved, because though the Reaping is about to begin it means that I won't have to endure these people any longer. Especially because every time Effie Trinket and her gaggle of assistants compliment my outfit, all I can think is _you're not the ones for whom I took the trouble._

….

"Primrose Everdeen!"

It takes a minute to process. I think it's because, deep down, no matter how angry the Reaping made me, how cruel and unfair it all was, I never truly believed that one of us – my family, Katniss' family – one of _us_ would be chosen. I mean, it comes down to math, right? I terms of numbers, the odds really are in our favor; even for those of us who take out Tesserae, the probability of being Reaped is small when you're in a pool of over a thousand. Hell, I've got more entries in that Reaping Ball than anyone in the district save five or six of my classmates, and if _I_ hadn't been picked yet….

Then, without thinking, I am shouldering my way through the crowd and ducking under the rope that separates the boys and girls, which is expressly Not Allowed (though I've never been especially concerned about what is and isn't), because Katniss is clawing frantically toward the stage and screaming "I volunteer!" I see a few peacekeepers move toward us, but they give pause when they see that I'm only there to hold Prim back, and give Katniss a hand climbing up on the platform. They let me get away with it because I am personally delivering my friend – my best friend – into the jaws of hell. It is excruciating, but it is the single comfort I can offer her because I know that _she_ knows that if it were Rory's name called I'd do the _exact_ same thing.

"Up you go, Catnip," I say evenly as Prim starts to sob. I watch the girl in the flowing blue dress with the elegant hair and she is a million miles from the girl _I_ know. She is pretty, no doubt, but delicate, almost fragile. Not nearly as beautiful as the strong, fierce, defiant Katniss that walked the woods with me this morning. She is afraid, but not for herself. For Prim, if they don't accept her as volunteer. Though it only takes a moment, it feels like a century before we all realize that yes, Katniss Everdeen is going to the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. I crush Prim to me protectively while she cries, and glare at the crowd because I can't look at Katniss and I can't look at Prim. But when I see them I realize I can't look at Katniss' pale, unsteady mother, or at my own who always thought of my friend as an adopted daughter. I can't look at the crowd of boys because they've not been drawn yet and they are all terrified because they know no one will volunteer for them. I can't look at the girls, because shameful relief has settled on their faces, and it makes me angry. My eyes fall on Madge as I try frantically not to look at _anyone_ – _hell's teeth, how does that happen so often?_ - and she is beautiful and her eyes are wet and it makes me angrier.

And then Haymitch Abernathy, our one and only Victor from Twelve, unceremoniously plummets off the stage. Our pride and joy, right there. The attention swirls quickly away from Katniss – which also means away from Prim, and by extension, myself. Who'd have ever thought I'd be go grateful that someone was vomiting messily a mere stride's length from where I was standing? I scoop up Prim's tiny frame and carry her to the back of the crowd to give her back to her mother. Also expressly Not Allowed, since the corrals of boys and girls have not yet been formally dismissed, but I dare any Peacekeeper to stop me now.

….

I run to the Justice building the moment we are released. I run hard, and I feel as if my heart might either burst or quit altogether. I run harder than I ever have before, because I know the clock is ticking. They will only give her so much time.

Katniss is the only person I can call a friend, and she has just been sentenced to death. But if there is anyone who can defy the odds, who can subvert this game, it is she. My fingers flutter over the gold Mockingjay pin at my shoulder as I think about how she will endure the gauntlet they have prepared for her. Because she will endure. In the moment she volunteered, she showed them that she is no creature of their making, not bound by their control. She will fight for the one thing the Capitol never banked on – not glory or fame, not money or prizes, not pride or even survival. No, Katniss Everdeen will fight for _love_.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's Note_**

**Thank you all for the reviews and favorites - the encouragement is much appreciated. Though now I feel quite a bit of pressure. I must update. And someday finish this albatross. :) **

I drift to one end of the hallway after I leave Katniss' room. I don't quite want to go home yet, but I don't want to be able to hear her mother and sister crying through the thin wall. I wonder briefly if she really will wear my pin in the arena; surely the people visiting her after me mean far more to her than I do. My throat constricts at the thought that the one and only person that I can legitimately call my friend probably places me (quite reasonably) at the very bottom of her list of people that are important to her. I immediately hate myself for even allowing that thought to form. _Buck up, Madge. You've hardly the right to self pity_. Then it occurs to me that none of them will likely have anything to give. The little golden bird will probably become her talisman by default. So I feel even worse.

Mrs. Everdeen emerges looking dazed. Prim is beside her, red-eyed but confident. She believes her sister will win. She doesn't just hope – she _knows_. A small swarm of Capitol reporters descend upon them with cameras and microphones like mechanical vultures to broadcast their reaction to all of Panem. It isn't good enough for them that Katniss is about to be brutally executed for no good reason; no, her family's emotional torment will make a fantastic sound bite between scenes.

Prim, bless her good, sweet heart, gives them no such satisfaction. I see her take a deep breath and tell the reporter with tangerine sausage curls and matching lips that Katniss will come home, that she is strong and brave and _smart_, that she will make her family – and all of Twelve – proud. I half expect the media team to be disappointed that she doesn't break down in hysterical tears, but she is so earnest and sincere that they love her. Though, I have to admit, it's hard not to adore Primrose Everdeen.

Just as Prim is prompted to tell how she felt when her name was called and her sister volunteered, I see two of the Peacekeepers behind her struggling at Katniss' door. They extract Gale from the room with some difficulty, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a squeak of alarm because he looks for all the world like he is about to pummel them both. At the moment I'd put my money on Gale in that battle, even two against one, but in the end there would only be hell to pay. In an impressive show of self-restraint, he just snaps his arm away from one of the men dragging him and glowers menacingly at the other. I recognize one of them – Darius, with the cinnamon-colored hair and easy demeanor – when he turns to mutter something to Gale, and even his face is pained. Gale's temper flares as he leans in toward Darius and snarls back in response, and though I can't at this distance make out what he said it has the desired effect; both of the Peacekeepers back away to let him go. My heart skips a beat when he turns and takes a step in my direction, and our eyes meet through the cluster of reporters around Katniss' family.

At which point he turns on his heel and walks the other way. I try for a moment to convince myself that he does this to avoid the little circus surrounding the Everdeens, because they would love him, too, with his dark hair and storm-gray eyes and camera-ready features. But I know better. He'd have just ignored them.

….

I do my best to look like I know where I'm going, even though I don't, because I don't want to give any living soul the smallest reason to even _consider_ speaking to me. But I'm not particularly familiar with the justice building as I generally try to avoid it altogether, and the one exit I _knew_ how to find was… well, it takes me a while to find my way out. The first set of doors that I come to I find locked (_what if there was a fire? Oh, that's right, they don't care_) and the second set give way to a dingy stairwell that I suppose must lead to a basement (which I have _less_ than _no_ interest in exploring). I'm starting to feel claustrophobic – how is it that I can navigate the forest in my sleep, but not a building designed as a square? – when the third set open onto a crumbling set of concrete steps outside. Because in the forest, my friend had not been slated for slaughter yet. Right. And I still had all the time in the world to tell her I loved her.

Reeling, I sit down on the bottom step. Or rather, my knees finally give out under the crushing and very real sense of being alone. Above all the others, Katniss _understood_. We were cut from the same cloth. I choke on the fact that I had nothing to give her, because if her token from home came from anyone it should have come from _me_. Instead, I walked into her room empty handed to see _her_ pin on Katniss' collar. _Her_. The One I Could _Never_ Have. I hate her for it, for giving Katniss what I could not, reminding me that I have nothing to offer. I couldn't even _tell_ her in the end. I should have, I had the chance. And it took me too long.

I give myself a few moments to think, to feel everything, before I have to put all the pieces back together and go back to our families and make sure they continue to survive. Then the anger comes again as I do the math, one less hunting partner and two more mouths to feed. It all comes down to the math. _Fucking odds_. Every single one of those damn Capitol slogan-writers can go slowly and painfully to _hell_.

….

I consider staying a little longer to offer condolences to Katniss' mother and sister, but watching the Mellark family pass by changes my mind. Mr. Mellark, always kind and quick to smile when I'd bought bread in his shop, stares at the floor and wrings his shirttail with trembling hands. Mrs. Mellark always looks like she swallowed a hornet, but now even the sourness is drained from her, leaving an austere, tear-stained shell. What do you say to that? _Even if she dies in the end, your daughter will give them hell? How nice of your sister to offer to get butchered instead of you? _

Outside, there are fewer people in the square than usual. People are eager to go home, I suppose, and count their family members over and over again to reassure themselves that yes, they are all still there. I'm dreading the task, myself. Reaping day is always difficult for my mother. I consider the tally waiting for me at home. _Dad: zero, probably working overnight tonight. Mom: one, no, half. Yes, half. Me: one, I guess. So one and a half. No one Reaped and still coming up short. _I'm ashamed that it makes me sad, because I don't think I've really _earned_ the sadness.

When I get to the bottom of the steps, a boy jogs my direction. "Hey, you're Katniss' friend at school, right?" he says.

I almost look reflexively over my shoulder, expecting him to be addressing someone else (since even though everyone knows who I am no one usually really wants to _talk_ to me), but I stop short and blink at him. He _is_ talking to _me_, and he is a younger, miniature version of Gale Hawthorne. I blink stupidly again, because miniature is a strictly relative term; he must be half a decade my junior and he looks me dead in the eye. _Are all the Hawthornes enormous? _This must be his brother, Rory. Yes, because over his shoulder I see a woman who must be Gale's mother, Hazelle, flanked by another boy and a girl, who must be Vick and Posy. Rory, whose name goes into the Reaping Ball next year. Hazelle, who does laundry and whose husband died in the mine. Vick, who wants nothing more than to Be Gale when he grows up. Posy, who will start her first year of school next autumn. Privately, I'm a little embarrassed that I can conjure this information at will. _Hell's bells. I've wasted more time and energy than a morning's worth of hair and makeup on this…. _

"Yeah, you're Madge," he confirms for me, apparently overlooking the fact that I'm flustered. I'm grateful that he does not say my name like it tastes like a lemon. I amend my assessment of him. _A younger, miniature, and more pleasant version of Gale Hawthorne. _"You were inside, right? Did you see my brother? Gale? He went to talk to Katniss, but… he hasn't come back yet."

Did I see his brother? I flush a little as the honest answer springs to mind: _If he's there, I see nothing else_. "Uh, well…." I look over his shoulder again at his mother when I can't get words to come out.

"Mom's worried," he says plainly as he jerks a thumb in her direction.

I smile as reassuringly as I can. "Moms do that," I say. "Here, I'll talk to her."

He looks relieved at my offer. Gale or no Gale, the Hawthornes are practically part of Katniss' family, and I ought to do right by that. Which would include giving Hazelle one less thing to worry about. Like her eldest son doing something to land himself in the stocks.

"Mrs. Hawthorne?" I say, and the words feel weird in my mouth. She looks at me expectantly, and though there is recognition in her eyes there is no hostility. It makes speaking a little easier. "They brought Gale out of her room, but he went the other way down the hall. I'm not sure where he went, but nothing's wrong. I think… he just wanted to be left alone for a while." _Alone somewhere as far away from _me_ as possible._

Hazelle lets out a sigh and relaxes a degree. "That's what I expected," she says. "Just wanted to be sure. Thank you."

A light tug at the hem of my skirt catches my attention and a small voice chirps, "I like your dress."

I look down at an even smaller, younger, _girl_ version of Gale, who smiles shyly back at me as Hazelle chides her gently. "No, Posy…."

I wave a hand dismissively at her mother. "No, no, it's okay." I look back at the little girl. A tear spills from one eye against my will – _damn_ it – as I say, "Thank you, Posy, it's very sweet of you to say that."

….

Out of the thousands of people in this God-forsaken district, Madge Undersee is the one I find talking to my family as I finally round the corner of the justice building. Granted, it's only a moment before she walks away, but I'm not in an especially charitable mood, so it still grates. It could have been anyone. It could have been Katniss' mother. It could have been Prim. It could have been one of the peacekeepers complaining about my attitude problem. Or a teacher from school. Maybe one of the seedier traders from the Hob. A complete stranger. Hell, I'd rather have it be _Bristel_, who (I might add) I hoped would _never_ meet my mother because he has more dirt on me than _anyone_ and derives great joy from reminding me every chance he gets. No. It's Madge. In her dress. With her perfect gold hair that matches her mockingjay pin. _Fucking odds_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

**Apologies for the long time between updates. There are neither enough hours in the day nor days in the week. In any case, I hope this is less painful to read than it was to write. Thank you again for reviews and encouragement - there are no words for how much it helps!**

Days pass. Each morning when I wake up, I immediately think of meeting her in the woods. A deeply-ingrained habit. Some mornings it takes a split second, others a whole minute, but when full consciousness comes crashing in the realization is always the same: _No, you're not meeting anyone_. And I grit my teeth, get up, dress. Pull on boots, tie them. Run a hand through my hair. Or not. Shave very, very carefully. Because what I really want to do is put my fist through the wall. Or the door. Or the warped mirror over the sink.

Each morning I talk myself out of it. _If you break your hand, your family starves. Katniss' family starves. Can't set a snare with a broken hand. _Once or twice, I seriously consider the fact that I know how to throw a punch correctly, that I _could_ actually do it without breaking a hand. But it would wake up the kids, break something else that would cost time and money to fix, and earn me a look of disappointment from my mother (which is truthfully worse than getting yelled at). So I don't do it. It sure would make me feel better, though.

Each morning I check my lines. I can't decide if it's relief or torture. The motions are familiar, the solitude is not. Even on days when I had done this alone before, there was always the knowledge that she would be here the next time. The thought that she was probably wishing she _were_ here instead of doing whatever it was that was keeping her busy kept me company almost as well as she did herself. I wonder if she is even given the chance to wish, now. Only on the days the traps are light do I hunt; it reminds me too sharply that she is absent. I'm a good archer, but she was better.

Each morning, I drop a rabbit or grouse at the Everdeens', and take the rest of my haul to the Hob before school. Most everyone tries to pretend that nothing is different. I can't decide if it helps or not. I don't think they can decide, either. They still haggle over trades some, but when an arrow-damaged pelt fetches the same price as a clean one from a snare, the simmering ire boils again. Because Katniss' pelts were always worth more, they required no repair. So now I have to feel grateful. And I hate that feeling. Obligations are inconvenient. I have a long enough list already.

Then to school, which is (and I never thought I'd say this) a small comfort simply because it has not changed. I still refuse to acknowledge that homework has ever been assigned to me since I turned fourteen, and my teachers still don't bother me about it. I learned a long time ago that if I ignored their nagging but still earned good marks on my tests that they would let it slide. Since we are two years apart, I rarely saw Katniss at school so it's a little easier to forget that I won't see her some other time.

Until about noon. Because that's when I'd have a chance to catch her if I needed to, to make plans for the next day, while I was between classes during her lunch period. I didn't do it every day, true, but I could have if I wanted to, and now I can't. Now, I pass the cafeteria doorway daily, looking for her. And all I see is and empty chair and Madge Undersee. Damn it. _Why doesn't she find somewhere else to go?_ And the worst part of it is that every day I find myself looking longer than the day before. One day, her hair is pulled into a ponytail with a plain black band, and she stares blankly at her lunch tray. No Katniss. The next day, the same ponytail with a blue ribbon that matches her eyes. Still no Katniss. After that, a messier ponytail, reading a textbook. Then pinned into a knot at the back of her head, chewing on a pencil as she reads. I wonder if she knows anything. She must. Her father is the mayor, works for the Capitol. _I should have been nicer to her_…. Something about the thought makes me uncomfortable, so I crumple it up and throw it away. Problem solved.

Each afternoon I spend my class time paying closer attention than I usually do because the distraction helps me shake the discomfort brought on by midday. After the last bell, I wait outside for my brothers; my mother brings them to school so I can trade at the Hob, and I am responsible for getting them home so she can finish her laundry. Vick always throws himself at me, bursting at the seams to give me the latest update on the exciting life of a third-grader, but Rory is getting old enough that he doesn't really want to be walked home by his older brother. No matter how great he thinks I am. I suspect it has something to do with waking up one morning and realizing suddenly that Primrose Everdeen is adorable. It's funny at first, because I remember dropping off strawberries a couple years ago at the Mayor's house to discover that his daughter had gone from gangly and awkward to grown-up and gorgeous in the space between two Saturdays. Then it isn't funny anymore. It pisses me off. In the end it's painful. Because it doesn't really matter how gorgeous she is. And the reason that Rory has a good excuse to start walking Prim home is that her sister isn't here to do it. My day is ruined anew.

Each afternoon when I get home, I become a living jungle-gym for Posy and as tired and taxed as I am I still wouldn't skip it for the world. She is thrilled to have a fresh audience for the new song she made up, or dance she invented, or list of a-million-and-one questions. Vick embarrasses Rory every day by announcing loudly that he _cannot_ understand why he walks home _way_ ahead of us, because as far as he is concerned girls are still _icky_. Too bad the poor kid will grow out of that someday. A game of chase inevitably ensues, with Rory threatening Vick with bodily harm. I intervene not because I think Rory would actually hurt his brother (he doesn't have a mean bone in his body – the one time Rory made Vick cry, Rory cried harder) but more because it's like having two deer tear around the kitchen and living room, which are very, very small. Every time I do this, Posy stands with her hands on her hips and tells her brothers sternly to listen to me, which is hysterical. My day gets a tiny bit better.

Each evening I keep the three of them occupied so my mother can have a few minutes of peace to herself, which she uses to cook a meager supper. I don't help, because I am utterly incapable of cooking anything except over a campfire, and admittedly even those results are suspect. In exchange, I direct the kids in washing our worn, chipped dishes so she can have a few more minutes to herself to do nothing. Somehow, one of them always ends up wetter than the dinnerware.

Each night, I try to stay up for a bit after I herd the kids into bed, but I don't want too much time to sit and think. I get enough of that through the day. So I collapse in bead and fall asleep to the nightmarish thought that I'll have to get up and fight through all of it again tomorrow.

Days pass, all the same, one running into the other. Until today. Madge sits alone in the cafeteria as usual, and I see today her hair is down, she is writing in a notebook while one foot taps idly on the floor, concentrating intensely. But today, her long eyelashes flutter, and maybe it's the stress, maybe it's the sadness, maybe it's the lack of sleep – my reaction time isn't at its sharpest. Her blue eyes come up. And catch me.

….

I am exhausted. All the time. My mother stays in bed for days. My father is stuck working longer hours than usual. So I spend a lot of time alone. It seems like it shouldn't make me so tired, but it does. I'm up far earlier than necessary to get ready for school because I need to make breakfast, check on mom, try to coax her into eating something before I give her the medicine. If she eats and the morning goes smoothly, I have time to clean up the dishes and make myself look presentable. If she doesn't (and this happens more frequently after Reaping Days) and I run behind, the dishes get dumped in the sink and the most I can do is make sure my clothes are on right side out before I dash out the door. When this happens on the mornings that Rose, our housekeeper, is scheduled to come in, it makes me feel doubly bad - I can't stand the thought that someone else will be cleaning up my mess. By the time I actually get to school, I feel mentally drained. Class is a struggle to stay focused between worry over my parents and the fear that Rose will start to think I'm an entitled little brat, which are set against a noisy backdrop of self-loathing; how selfish of me to be so consumed by such trivial things, while my friend is locked up like livestock set to literally fight to the death? I just have to endure life. Katniss has to find a way to save hers.

Lunchtime is difficult because Katniss is ostensibly missing. If I had other friends it might be less obvious, but I don't, so the empty chair across the table gapes at me every day. Reminding me just how close to home this year's games have hit. I have faith in her, but it doesn't make it any easier, any less worrisome, any less _lonely_. It's a struggle to eat my meal, but I force myself to do it because all I can think of is how grateful she would be to have it once she's in the arena.

Afternoons are a blur because as much as I miss my family I still dread going home to an existence that is a world apart from the one that everyone else has _invented_ for me, that everyone else _resents_. I never know if my mother will still be asleep when I get there, crying hysterically, or leaning dizzily over the toilet trying to fight off the nausea brought on by yet another debilitating headache. It's anyone's guess. I'd like to be able to just sit and chat with her again, but I know from experience that it'll be weeks before we get back to that point. When I do get to see my father, there is an invisible wall between us. We had always been close but over the last few years, as I've come to suspect some of the less-legal aspects of his work and he's come to suspect that I'm catching on, something that was never strained before has become so now. He did not raise a stupid daughter, and I think he's starting to regret it; the more I know, the more he worries, and the more guarded he becomes. Rose is the closest thing to normal family that I have, and though she is always kind to me she isn't there every day, and the days she is she's busy. Of late, often with my breakfast dishes.

Day in, day out, I begin to wonder if anyone would notice if I vanished into thin air now that Katniss is gone, because other than her I can't think of another person who would. By the end of the week, I decide officially that I'm a Horrible Person for feeling sorry for myself. And thinking of Katniss, I resolve to fight harder, to count my blessings very carefully, and to make myself a little more useful to my father. He didn't raise a stupid daughter, and if he's going to worry, it I might as well make it _worth_ it.

At lunchtime I write a list of things to do, to say, so I can get my thoughts out and organized before they swirl into an incoherent mess. The sudden rush of determination is a welcome but overwhelming feeling. And then, quite suddenly, it deflates and freezes over when I look up and see Gale Hawthorne staring at me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**

**Wow. I have fans. Only a handful, comparatively speaking, but I honestly didn't expect _any_. :) Response continues to be wonderful! To those of you who review - thank you a million times over again for your feedback (I will start responding to you eventually as soon as I really get the hang of how this site works; I'm still floundering in the dark somewhat). Keep the opinions coming!**

**...**

I hold Gale's gaze for a moment and try desperately to appear calm and unsurprised. It is perhaps one of the most difficult things I have ever done. Because though neither of us moves, I am reminded immediately of the way I had seen a hawk perched on our garden fence track a dove on the wing. Then, with predatory grace, he pushes himself off the door jamb and moves toward me. I hate to admit it, but I'm pretty sure my calm exterior cracks a little as I shrink slightly into my chair. It's hard to say for certain as I have to concentrate very hard on basic functions. _Breathe, Madge. Blink. Breathe again. _I hope he can't tell. I know it won't help his opinion of me. But then, I'm sure those eyes don't miss much.

He sits across from me – in Katniss' seat – implacable as ever, and pins me with his stare. I don't think I could move if the building burned down around us, and though I steel myself for the worst, I don't think I'd even _want_ to. _Just don't cry, Madge, whatever you do…._

His eyes flicker downward for the briefest second, and when they come back up to mine they have lost a bit of their edge. I can breathe again without having to remind myself, so I lean in just enough to appear inviting. I hope.

"Have you heard anything?" he says evenly.

I blink once, twice, grateful that he has shocked another reflex back into working order with a marked lack of hostility. He isn't friendly, but civility is leaps and bounds ahead of where we'd been before. _We. Ha. Don't get carried away, Madge. He and I. Yes._

I sigh and shake my head. "No." I wish I had.

He looks away as if mildly annoyed. At least he's not angry. "Worth a shot," he mutters.

_Ah. There it is. _It stings that he just lowered himself to my level – which is somewhere above pond scum but below snails – and it turned out to be a waste of time and effort. I slump a little and lean an elbow on the table. He doesn't know me, has fair reasons for not wanting to, is worried for a friend who may die soon, and is now charged with the survival of two families. So I forgive him. Again.

"I thought maybe…." He trails off, as if he feels the need to further explain the trouble taken to speak to me. Clearly he would never do such a thing unless he had a very, very good reason. I guess Katniss qualifies. I wonder if she knows how lucky she is.

I shake my head again. "Not yet," I answer as gently as I can. "The Opening Presentation is tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know." He shifts in his chair and rises. It's like watching water fall upward. For the tiniest moment, the exhaustion and grief that he carries with him shows on his face.

"She has a chance, Gale," I offer as he turns to leave.

"No she doesn't, Undersee," he says flatly without looking back.

Maybe it's my own exhaustion, or the sudden burst of resolve I've felt today, or a sense of protectiveness for my friend. Maybe it's the grating friction caused by the thrill that he actually knows my name (I've long wondered) and the irritation that he addressed me by my surname only. I tack _Knock Gale Hawthorne Down A Peg_ onto my to-do list. "She'd resent that, you know," I snap. "She'd hate you for it." _Oh God, that was cruel. _I surprise even myself. I regret the second half of the statement the moment it passes my lips.

But it gets him to turn around.

As he walks back toward me, I seriously question the wisdom of my actions. If it weren't for the fact that I'm a girl and there are a lot of witnesses in the cafeteria at the moment, I'm certain that he would strangle me here and now. I get up from my chair in a vain attempt to appear less vulnerable; he's still a head taller than I am, at least. He leans over me like a tiger over a housecat that's gotten a bit big for its britches. Which, to be honest, is exactly what I've done. I give him my best defiant stare, because it's that or sob and I already promised myself that I would _not_ cry. In front of him, anyway.

"You speak for her now?" he snarls through gritted teeth. "Who the _hell_ do you think you _are_?"

"I'm her friend," I say evenly, "and she has a chance." The swell of pride that comes when I realize that my voice does not waver brings with it a reckless courage. "_You_," I continue, punctuating the word with an index finger to his chest, "know that better than anyone, _Hawthorne_."

"Oh? Because all the kids from twelve come back in one piece?" His tone drips venom, his eyes could freeze water on a hot summer day. But under all the anger is a flicker of despair. Of heartbreak.

I soften a bit, because despite the fact that he hates me more than any other living thing that draws breath, his pain pains me. "Because she isn't playing by their rules," I say quietly, begging him to see it.

He falls silent, and after a second something about the way he is looking at me changes. The anger and disgust and sadness are still there, but there is a subtle difference nonetheless. After a moment, he straightens himself, his eyes fall away again, his jaw clenches. He exhales deeply. Silver eyes meet mine again, and this time they are only intense.

I realize I've forgotten to breathe again when I try to smile faintly, hoping with everything that I have left in me that he understands that I am _on his side_. That I –

Before I know it, he is gone.

….

For the first time in nearly a week, I feel something like a glimmer of hope. Not quite hope, but something like it. Real hope is still too much to ask for. Katniss has a chance. I should know that better than anyone. This feeling should hardly bring on a wave of anger and shame, but it does. I had written her off as already dead. I can't deny it, as much as I want to. I hadn't even consciously realized it. And yes, she would resent it. Hate me for it.

And _Madge fucking Undersee_ had to be the one to throw it in my face.

I almost feel bad for tearing into her after she tried to offer words of comfort, but I'm not in the mood for more guilt, so I get over it. Still, I have to give her credit, she stood her ground and wouldn't be cowed. She stuck up for Katniss, and I can only respect that. If roles were reversed, I'd have done the same. Except I probably would have hit somebody.

I completely miss the afternoon. I have no idea what classes I went to. For all I know, I didn't even go to the right ones. Bristel has to ask me three times if I'm busy tomorrow before I realize that someone is talking to me, and even then when he tells me he needs help fixing something I'm not sure what it was that he said needed fixed or if I told him yes or no. I nearly start home without my brother, and it's only when Vick flings himself into the side of my leg that I remember that I have _two_. I look around for Rory, and find that he's already all the way down the street. Something at the back of my mind says that only a few minutes ago he had dashed past me and said "See you at home!" But I'm not a hundred percent on that. How could I forget that fast?

When I get home, I mumble something like "Hello" in my mother's general direction and collapse into a chair. She seems to understand to leave me alone; she, like everyone else, knows the Opening Ceremony is tomorrow. When the boys begin a wrestling match in the middle of the floor, I don't even intervene – I just glower at them both and point at the door. They know better than to argue, and scoot outside without a peep. Rather than run her usual circles around me, Posy reins herself in and simply climbs into my lap.

She places a hand on my shoulder and stares at me with remarkable gravity for someone so small. "Don't worry," she says seriously, "Catnip will be okay."

I give her my best attempt at a smile, which to be honest must be a pretty pathetic one. "You know, you're right," I say, because it's easier to say now. I don't quite believe it, but I _almost_ do. And I want Posy to believe it. When I hug her against me I mentally recite a well-worn vow that I will give my _life_ to make sure she never ends up where Katniss is.

I still feel twisted up inside, so I stand up and dangle her by her ankles, which makes her giggle. "Help mom with dinner for me?"

"Yes! Yes!" she squeaks. "Put me down!" She says it because she's supposed to, not because she means it. I lower her until her hands touch the floor and walk her wheel-barrow-style to my mother.

"Posy is going to help make supper," I announce as my sister collapses in a fit of laughter. My mother understands me perfectly; this is code for _I'm giving her something to do besides boss her brothers around and cause an argument_. "I'll be back later."

Mom smiles and nods, and I think she's a little relieved that I'm getting out of the house for a while. I know she's been worried about me since Reaping Day. Hell, _I've_ been a little worried about me.

For the first time in days, it feels good to be outside in the early evening. I still don't feel good, but the fresh air helps today. Down the street, I find that Rory and Vick have joined a raucous game of tag with some of the other neighborhood kids and while I watch them for a few minutes I envy the joy they both seem to get from it. I realize with sudden clarity that my vow of protection for my siblings is inadequate – it's not enough to make sure they never end up where Katniss is. No, I don't want them to end up where _I_ am.

I wander for a while and consider finding something constructive to do, but I don't get that far. Instead I find a space in the meadow, lay back with my arms folded behind my head and watch the stars come out while I chew a few mint leaves. I try to think of Katniss, but for some reason she makes me think of Madge. Madge, with her blue eyes ablaze and fair skin flushed pink as she put me in my place about Katniss. _Put me in my place_. I try hard to be angry, and I almost get there. But the fire I saw in her today – that I hadn't known was there – has burned the anger in to something more like an ache.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**

**Another looooong time between updates. I had originally hoped to write a new chapter every few days or so, but I have too many irons in the fire, as they say. Seeing as how I do not get paid for this particular iron, it's a slightly lower priority than some of the others. So, for those of you who care (thank you, by the way - you are keeping me motivated!) I'm going to aim for a chapter a week, give or take. **

The day of the opening ceremony is a nice one, sunny, clear, and warm. It feels like a sin. Like wearing yellow to someone's funeral. Like dancing on a grave.

I would normally love a day like today, but there's too much going on to appreciate it. Besides, I don't quite feel like I'm allowed to, anyway. Yesterday's motivation has waned a bit as I have had time to choose a course of action – the resolve is still there, but now it is tempered with caution. I'd initially thought to corner my father in his office, spill out all my suspicions plainly, and demand a share of the responsibility. It had become clear, after giving the idea time to steep, that no responsible parent would respond agreeably. Dad would probably lock me in my room for the remainder of my life. That's what _I_ would do if it were _my_ well-meaning but self-endangering child. After careful consideration, I decided that the most likely thing to get me what I want would be to do a little covert work on my own and then corner him and hope he doesn't realize that locking me in my room is still an option. At the very least, this way I could accomplish something small before I'm imprisoned. Thank goodness he wasn't home yet when I got here yesterday, still fired up over my argument with Gale.

That fire has waned, too. Now there's just regret and heartache in its place. The last thing he needed was more pain, and it was clear that my words – meant for comfort but harsh in the heat of the moment – had cut deeply. No wonder he hates me. I do.

I check on my mother, and for once I am actually thankful that she is mostly incoherent so she doesn't ask about my puffy, red eyes. It's still too soon for another dose of morphling, and she doesn't appear to need it yet, but I eye the vial on the nightstand longingly. I awakened this morning with a splitting headache from crying myself to sleep. I don't know why I did; it's not as if Gale Hawthorne hating me is some shocking new development. Maybe it's because I've finally given him a good reason to. At least Rose isn't in today. She'd never let it slide, and I don't quite know how she does it but she always gets me to spill my guts.

I still have a couple hours before the Ceremony viewing in the square, so I check my nerves and head to my father's office. He is, of course, at the justice building preparing for the viewing and meeting with more Capitol media teams. Which means his office is unoccupied at the moment.

….

The Opening Ceremony and Presentation of tributes is mandatory viewing, which means everyone has to gather in the town square to watch on the public screens. I find it interesting that the damn things are never operational unless it's this time of year. They don't work when they could be broadcasting weather reports or district news or even something as useless as the current price of silver. But the capitol makes sure they turn on for the Games.

I stand with my family on the fringe of the crowd, because I'm torn about whether or not I want to watch this. I've _never_ really wanted to, but this year…. I can't decide which is worse: seeing Katniss paraded through a crowd of Capitol gawkers like a goat up for auction, or missing a chance to see her while she's still alive and unharmed. It's nauseating. So I opt to handle it the way I prefer to handle all of my decisions I'd rather avoid. Wait until the last possible second, and then go with my gut. It's served me pretty well so far. Mostly.

Posy and Vick start to whine because they can't see anything, and my first instinct is to snap at them that they shouldn't complain about that, but then I remind myself that they are both still young enough to not quite grasp what's going on. So I take Vick and hoist him onto my shoulders and Mom balances Posy on a hip. A new round of whining begins because Posy does _not_ think it's fair that Vick now has a better view than she does, and though I can't actually see his face I am absolutely _certain_ that he's sticking his tongue out at her. Mom and I turn face to face to scold each other's luggage, which makes them both pout. Still annoying, but quieter. Rory is embarrassed by all of us. Just to needle him (on the off chance that Prim Everdeen is looking) I reach over and ruffle his hair with one hand. Horrified, he scowls back at me and punches me in the arm. I make a show of staggering sideways and grabbing my bicep to advertise that it was a pretty sorry excuse for a punch, and I realize that it won't be long before I can't carry Vick like this anymore. He's getting heavy. It gets the desired result though; Rory is _livid_. Which is better than anxious over the Games. This year has been difficult for him. You might know, the year someone he knows personally gets drafted is the year before his name goes into the Reaping Ball for the first time. If I can keep him distracted, I can keep him a little farther away from fear and despair.

….

All important Capitol documents are housed in the Justice Building, where the most locks, cameras, and loyal pairs of eyes can keep them safe. Even when Dad brings some home to work on, they still have to go right back, and there are others that he can only deal with there. So it stands to reason that the things that interest me at the moment would be kept as far from there as possible.

Something makes me hesitate as I lay my hand on the doorknob – the Capitol may be arrogant, decadent, and perverse, but they're not stupid. Surely they watch very closely the things that go on in all of their officials' offices, whether at home, in government buildings, or elsewhere. I think of the many closed-door meetings my father has had with Haymitch Abernathy over time, and not a single one in my memory was ever conducted in his office. And a blind man could see that _anything_ that Haymitch Abernathy has to say would be something of which the Capitol would disapprove. Especially because even though I'm certain that his drunken antics are not an act, I suspect there's more going on there than he lets on. No, none in his office. Always in the _den_.

The den is just off the parlor, and true to its name it is tiny and dim. It contains exactly two armchairs, a bookshelf, and a writing desk. The armchairs are ugly but comfortable, the bookshelf is full save the middle shelf devoted to several decanted liquors (for Haymitch's benefit, I assume), and the drawers of the desk are full of junk. I examine the bookshelf for a moment, thinking it might be an ideal hiding place, but I've read nearly every book in the house and by now I ought to have stumbled across something by mere coincidence. I've been through the drawers of the desk, too, but never carefully. I pull out each drawer and sift through its contents minutely, searching for some indication that I don't have an overactive imagination exacerbated by a lack of a social life.

Nothing. Useless junk. I honestly wonder why any of it is even _in_ there. Dried-up pens. A small box of fossilized candy. Grocery lists older than I am. A knotted ball of old shoelaces? Really? I sit back on my heels and push the bottom drawer back into place. Just before I close it, something about the angle of my line of sight seems off. I open the drawer again, reach a hand down to the bottom of it. It's not as deep as it looks from the outside. Close, but not quite. _You've got to be kidding…._

….

The mayor reads an announcement over the loudspeaker, and I don't pay much attention after he indicates that the Ceremony will begin any moment. Someone comes running toward the crowd from the other side of the square. It's a girl, a town girl with blonde hair. As she gets closer, I see she is around my age, wearing a plain but flattering brown dress. I look a moment longer, because the dress is _very_ flattering. Her hair is escaping from a loose ponytail. And just a split second before she pushes her way into the throng of people, her eyes find mine before I can look away. _Shit_.

I'd done a really good job today of keeping thoughts of her at bay. The fresh air last night did wonders to clear my head. And there she is, perfect lips curved into a faint smile and sky -colored eyes still sparked with fire. She absolutely _refuses_ to _go_ _away_. To leave me in peace.

She disappears into the crowd. As the Anthem begins to play, my eyes continue to follow her golden head through the mass of people even though I try to keep them from doing it. She moves toward the front of the crowd so she can see better. How does she make _brown_ look _radiant_?

A Capitol reporter dominates the screens and announces that the Parade is starting. I wince at her face – the silver vine-like tattoo that twists from her left eye over her forehead and cheekbone is distracting enough to make her blue hair and violet lipstick look tame – but I'm glad for the distraction. The camera sweeps away from her (thank goodness) to focus on a wide boulevard lined by rows of excited spectators and towering, colorful buildings. A far cry from our dingy, dilapidated Twelve. A chariot emerges from a dark gate, and the glorified funeral procession begins. I'm nauseated all over again.

Pair after pair of tributes scroll by, and comments ripple through the crowd as the obnoxious reporter recites trivial, impersonal details about each of them. Their name, their age, their district, what they think of the beautiful capitol and its hospitality. Never that they are someone's child, brother, sister. Friend. They'll save that for later, when they air the interviews with family members after the Ceremony. Which reminds me. I'll need to get out of here as soon as physically possible once we are allowed to go. Whether they intend to or not, someone is bound to mention my connection to Katniss to one of those Capitol snakes slithering around with a microphone.

The tributes from Twelve are always the very last to be presented, and I hold my breath while I wait for them to come on screen. With the exception of Districts One and Two which are Capitol favorites, this year's costumes have been worse than usual (I reserve special pity for the District Nine kids, who are dressed as cows); I just hope that they don't send Katniss out naked and covered in coal dust. Or Peeta Mellark, for that matter. I don't need to see that. Their one saving grace may be that being last means most everyone will have stopped paying attention. _I_ pretty much tuned out when it became apparent that the dress on the girl from District One, skimpy as it was, was _not_ actually going to fall off.

It turns out that, for the first time since the Hunger Games began, everyone pays attention when District Twelve rolls out. The crowd falls silent. Utterly pin-drop silent. Katniss is… _breathtaking_. Truly. Thousands of people collectively forget to breathe. Being last has played into their hands, because the sun is lower in the sky and the twilight only accents their stylists' work. Flowing capes of living flame trail behind both of them as they ride down the street, hand in hand and waving at the crowd. Hushed whispers begin, because never has there _ever_ been such a spectacle at the Games. This is closer to the Katniss _I_ know. I know her well enough to appreciate that the smiling and waving is the worst part for her, and yet she does it anyway because her life depends on it. I believe a little more that she has a chance; for Katniss this is the brave thing, and if she can do _this_, she can fight through the Arena. I feel a swell of pride that my friend has stolen the show in such a spectacular fashion.

The thought that Katniss has a chance inadvertently draws my eyes back to where Madge is standing, and as if on cue she looks over her shoulder and finds me. I want to look away, but I can't. I just watch as she smiles at me, as the breeze blows her hair back from her face like wisps of sunlight, as she shines a little brighter than before. Then she does something so simple and extraordinary that it rattles my bones. She turns back to the screen with Katniss all on fire, touches three fingers of her right hand to her lips, and extends her hand in a District Twelve salute. She stays like that, frozen, determined, and the person next to her does the same. Then another, and another, until finally the entire crowd – every last one – stands at attention, arms up, proud and full of hope. The feeling is catching.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note**

**I wrote, edited, scrapped and rewrote this chapter more times than I care to admit, and I'm _still_ not entirely satisfied. Please let me know what you think, because _I_ am incapable of thinking any more. I tried, but it turns out that my brain went on strike and didn't even bother to tell me. Many thanks to all of my readers for your support and encouragement. **

"I want in." I snap a sheet of paper up next to my face so my father can see it clearly. He turns ghost- white. I do, too, a little. _You've crossed the Rubicon now, Margaret Undersee. No going back_. But I keep it together. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I see my spat with Gale in a new light. A training session. Like what Katniss is doing now.

"Where did you get that?" he asks. At first I'm annoyed at the question – of all the million other things he ought to ask or say or do, that's it? Then I realize, as his hand trembles when he adjusts his glasses on his nose and swallows with effort, that this is the only thing he could force out.

"In the drawer with the false bottom in the desk." I say flatly, trying to make it clear with my tone of voice without being entirely disrespectful that I will not accept evasiveness. I must walk a very fine line here. It's taking a lot of concentration. I didn't sleep at all last night; I went to bed feeling like my every nerve had been set alight between the excitement of my discovery in the den and the emotion of the Ceremony in the square. Stacked on top of the night before that, when I didn't rest particularly well due to a fit of crying, it's left me exhausted and impatient. Dad didn't get home till the wee hours of the morning, and it took some careful planning to corral him into the den without provoking suspicion. I didn't want him to catch on to what I was up to and give him the chance to make an excuse and avoid me, and I didn't want the slimy Capitol news reporters staying with us to sniff out a story (or worse). I found a lot more than I bargained for when I disassembled that drawer. Enough that I knew I was in over my head before I even tried to do anything on my own. Enough that I was convinced that Plan A might be the best course of action after all.

"You _found_ that?" It's clear from the panicked twinge in his voice that he is seriously concerned about the fact that his sixteen-year-old daughter so easily found the hiding place for a sheaf of treasonous documents.

I'm too tired at this point to be anything but brutally honest. "I was a little surprised myself. A drawer with a secret compartment? And it's not even written in a cipher. But I guess something that cliché would be easily overlooked? No coding needed?"

"You _read_ it?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My tone is already drifting dangerously close to snottiness. _No, I was saving it and hoping you'd read it to me as a bedtime story_. I reign myself in by reminding myself that the stupid questions are just the shock talking. "Yes. I read it. That's why I want in."

….

I spend the better part of Sunday in the woods, which is nothing out of the ordinary except that for the first time in a week it is almost comfortable. I feel that I can take my time again, that I don't need to rush through the motions so I can escape the memories here. I still miss Katniss, but it's easier to think of her now. The sense of loss has transformed into something more like a sense of _waiting_. She is absent now, but she will return. This flicker of hope is an uneasy, alien thing for me. But at this point I'll take what I can get. I can adapt to uncomfortable situations. I've done it all my life. Sometimes it takes a while. There are worse things than hope to get used to.

I think of Katniss in her burning costume as I clean up my neglected bow and arrows. A light in the darkness. She did not inspire hope – she demanded it, and sparked it to life in all of us. Even me. And I'd thought I'd long passed the point when I would _ever_ be able to feel it. I suppose I have Madge Undersee to thank for that, too, but I don't want to thank Madge Undersee for _anything_, so I choose to ignore it. As I inspect the grip on the bow, it occurs to me that ignoring the fact that I ought to _thank_ the girl leaves me nothing to think about except… just the _girl_. The way she had turned to smile at me. How it was not a condescending, I-told-you-so kind of smile, but something earnest and full of joy. That her messy disaster of a ponytail was actually quite becoming…. _Fine. Thank you, Madge_, I think, and I roll my eyes at myself. _There. I acknowledged it_. Ah, there we go. Annoyance is easier. Moving on.

I busy myself with examining the fletchings on the ends of each bolt. About a third of the arrows in the quiver need them replaced. Katniss would be irritated with me. I can see the exact look she would have on her face: forehead not quite creased from frowning eyebrows, grey eyes half-lidded, mouth in a tight, straight line. This is something I've always been a little less than diligent about; as far as I'm concerned, fletching an arrow is a pain in the ass and therefore merits my attention only when absolutely necessary. Katniss was always much more conscientious. But I've been especially lazy of late. Even for me. I set the worst of them aside and promise to make myself repair them as soon as I get my hands on some good feathers.

I shoulder the quiver and the bow and set out to check my lines of snares. I get a fair catch from them. A pair of rabbits and a squirrel in the woods, and a fat raccoon and muskrat closer to the stream. I'll keep a rabbit, the squirrel should sell at the baker's (provided his harpy of a wife doesn't answer the door first), and the other rabbit and the raccoon will likely be easy to trade. The muskrat will probably go to Greasy Sae, because though she seldom pays the best prices her standards are reliably low. I learned a long time ago that those who can afford to buy meat tend to have more prejudices about where it comes from. I reset the snares, but I don't bother with new ones today – today is not the day to linger on the lines. No, today I will hunt. Like before she left. I owe her that.

….

"I can't let you get into this mess, Magpie." After shock, panic, anger, and fear wash across his features, my father settles on desperation, and tacks on the embarrassing pet name he uses for me in a last-ditch effort to persuade me to back down.

I'll give him credit. It almost works. A small part of me wants to be eight years old again, still too young to be embarrassed by my nickname, love a boy who despises me, have a friend Reaped for the Hunger Games, understand why my father is so afraid in this moment. To be holding world-shattering plans in one hand. _World-shattering_. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and some things can never be un-seen, un-known, _un-felt_. In the hours he's been away, my father has missed the fact that _I_ have _not missed_ that our world is a profoundly broken place. He's missed that that small, wishful part of me has eroded away to nothing more than an echo.

"Too late," I say calmly as I shake my head.

My response seems to snap him back to his senses, because his voice becomes stern. He is unaccustomed to blatant defiance from his daughter. To be honest, so am I. "No. You are a _sixteen year old girl-_"

"Who has a friend in the Games and who goes to a school where three quarters of her classmates don't know if they'll get to eat supper when they go home. _This_-" I wag the papers between us "-can change that. I _can't_ sit here and do nothing anymore."

The anger and desperation mix into something that looks painful. "_Yes_, you _can_. Being part of this could cost you your life. _Your life_, Madge."

He says the words like I don't understand what they really mean. He thinks that I haven't thought about it, that telling me that I might die for this might convince me to take his advice. He's wrong. I've had my head around this for a long time. My father did not raise a stupid daughter.

"As far as the Capitol is concerned, _I already am_. It's going on in my home. If you get caught, if you fail, I die. Whether I _do_ or even _know_ anything or _not_. _I die_. If I'm lucky." The next part hurts, but if I let him see it, all is lost. I'm confident though, because there is something that my father does not know about me. "_You_ put me in this position. I didn't _get_ a choice. So from my perspective, if you don't let me help it leaves me one option: I take these to Peacekeeper Cray and save my life." It kills me to say the words, and essentially blackmailing my father is the most painful thing I have ever done. But outside, I am only cold and heartless.

He looks for a moment like he might actually fall out of his chair from shock and rage. His face turns beet red, he seems to cease breathing altogether. I stand my ground. Then, after a moment, he softens. He sits back in his chair, defeated, befuddled, and maybe even a little proud. "I know my daughter, and she _would not_ do that. But otherwise, I have to say I'd have believed you if you were anyone else." He sighs, takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and I feel like I've just passed the audition.

I feel lower than I ever have for putting my father though this. But I have a good reason. When I started reading through this collection of jumbled, handwritten notes, I'd expected to find details on how he would tamper with the tesserae rations or fudge the budget books – things I'd long suspected he was doing to try in some small way to make life a hair's breadth easier for the citizens of Twelve. I wasn't thinking nearly big enough. Pieces of the plan had been slowly falling into place for years, and the next is critical. As the Hunger Games go, so goes the Capitol; if we fix the Games, wreck their outcome, we break Snow. And to fix the Games, we are going to kill Seneca Crane. My father never really knew about my ace in the hole, and he's beginning to understand how valuable it can be. I'd never go to Cray. But when properly motivated, I am an extraordinarily good liar.

….

I follow the creek for a while to get further from the places where I'd set my traps. Water sources draw game, so I choose a comfortable-looking tree near a wide spot in the creek, swing up onto a branch and settle in to play the waiting game. Hunting requires a lot of sitting still and being patient. There is a reason I don't do this with my brothers. Rory might get to that point in a few years, and I know he wants to learn, but if I let him start now we'd all starve.

Little by little, I tune out the sound of the water over the rocks to listen for the rustle of prey. If I turn my head just so, and keep the branch on the other side of the tree just outside my field of vision, I can almost pretend Katniss is perched there, still and silent as I am. The breeze brings a soft rush through the trees and the dappled sunlight dances on the forest floor below and makes the stream glitter. The darker shadows of denser leaves make thin rivulets of light visible as they fall to earth. An azure dragonfly flits through the golden lines like a little airborne gem, and it reminds me of Madge and her pretty, messy ponytail.

I see a chipmunk dart through the low foliage and across the creek. I ready my bow in an instant; the rodent is too small for an arrow, but I hope that something larger might be chasing it. After a second another one tears by, but nothing else in pursuit. I continue to listen carefully, but only the chatter of birds fills the air. I remember how Katniss liked to make the mockingjays sing, and without thinking, I whistle a few notes. Far away, a bird whistles back. A pause, and it sings again as if expecting an answer. I check myself and stay silent, certain that I've already frightened away any nearby game with this lapse. Then I catch an uglier, less melodious sound in the distance, only for a moment. _Geese_. A brief fit of honking gives them away farther downstream.

I slide down from the tree and pick my way quietly along the bank of the stream. Around a gentle bend, over a fallen tree. Ahead, bright light signals the edge of a clearing. I slow my pace and watch through the foliage; small heads bob on long, skinny necks. As I ease toward the treeline and kneel down I know they see me as little beady eyes turn my way, but I'm not concerned about it. Geese are not especially intelligent. They honk amongst themselves, but they don't flee. I nock a bolt and raise my bow, choosing my first target carefully. If I do this right, I should get a fair number of them.

It takes a loosed arrow to spur them to action, and they run and start to take flight as one of their comrades keels over with a weak bleat. Except for the one closest to me. It hisses angrily and spreads its wings in a waterfowl temper tantrum. Some geese make up for lack of brains by being meaner than _hell_. I ignore it, since it doesn't seem to be going anywhere soon, and zero in on the rest of the flock. I pick off three more in quick succession before they are too far away. I don't want to lose my arrows. Besides, four geese is a damn good haul. And I get the feathers I need. _Two birds, one stone. _The angry goose finally gives in and starts to retreat. I consider making it five, but I let the mean one go on principle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**

**This was originally planned as two chapters, but I couldn't seem to break it up in a satisfactory way. So, it's a long one this time around. Please let me know what you think. Gale had a lot to say :) Madge will have to wait till next time... **

**(Additional update... fixed typos. So sorry about those. If you happen to find any that I've missed, please send me a note).**

For three days we get silence from the Capitol. Training sessions are always top-secret. To keep the betting fair, they say. How rich.

The announcements about training scores always turned my stomach because while the Capitol says they are meant to indicate who is likely to become a victor, I can't help but think of them as morbid wagers on which children will die first and which will linger on in hell and die last. For the first time, I'm eager to hear the reports about the tributes, because for the first time we will bring _both_ of ours home.

I wonder how Katniss is doing – and Peeta Mellark, too. I imagine that her years of hunting in the forest with Gale have given her a head start, but Peeta has no such advantage. I knew him, albeit not well; he was often working in the bakery when I shopped there and like his father he was always polite and would say hello (instead of ignore me, or even worse, just stare like most other people). He looks like he ought to be strong from all the heavy lifting he had to do for his family's business, but beyond that…. Peeta just seems _too nice_ to survive the Hunger Games. I like and respect Katniss, but though no one could ever say she was _mean_, they certainly could never accuse her of being _too nice_.

Still, my father had said that Haymitch Abernathy "has a plan" but that he had declined to share it. Apparently the fewer people that knew about it, the better able he'd be to pull it off. I'm not sure I believe this is the reason – I don't think Haymitch is an idiot, but I don't think he's exactly _reliable_, either. It's entirely possible that the reason he wouldn't share his plan is that he doesn't have one.

At school, everyone is all abuzz about the Girl and Boy on Fire. "How did they do that?" "I've never seen anything like it!" "I almost didn't realize they were from Twelve." For once, I am actually grateful that no one is interested in talking to me about it because the excitement of knowing what the costumes were all about is still raw. The District Twelve stylists, Cinna and Portia, were very carefully selected for their positions, and it had taken a few years of maneuvering to get them appointed. And it was clear to see at the Opening Ceremony that they are _brilliant_.

I pass my time in class by pretending to work diligently while I sit and think of things to chat about with the carrion feeders that share my home at the moment. I have learned to see the Capitol media team with new eyes. They are no longer annoying, presumptuous guests – they are annoying, presumptuous guests in possession of lots of interesting information. For example, it wasn't long before

I was informed of the exact location of every camera in and around the justice building. Nothing that my father and the people with whom he is working hadn't already learned, but I was amazed at how little it took to get them to tell me, considering that it's _not supposed to be public information_. Even Dad isn't supposed to know. With a little patience and flattery, I ought to be able to get them to spill all kinds of things.

On the evening of the third day, the report comes out. The results won't be televised till tomorrow, another mandatory viewing event, but high ranking Capitol officials are entitled to see the scores before they are made public. Apparently as a thank-you for providing the fodder for the slaughterhouse that is the Arena, District Mayors are included in this group.

I hurry home from school so I can check on my mother again before I head to the Justice Building to find Dad. She's been doing a little better than usual the past couple of days, and it makes me wonder if she knows about what's going on behind the scenes. Part of me wants to ask her, because the Games are the reason she is so fragile. But I don't, because I fear that bringing up the subject so soon after a Reaping might cause her to backslide. Instead, I make pointless small talk about school, about the rabbit that is still wreaking havoc on the garden, about what a nice day it is outside and if she's feeling up to it maybe we can go for a walk later? When she nods in response and I see the effort that goes into the weak smile she gives me, I realize just how much I miss her.

As I pass Rose in the kitchen on my way out, I tell her I'll be back in time for supper, and that I'll try to convince Dad to do the same.

She looks at me with a raised eyebrow, and it occurs to me that I probably should have just snuck out without telling her. She knows I never deliberately seek out my father while he is still at work.

"Uh – huh," she says with a slow smile as she goes back to slicing a potato. "So, what's his name?"

_She thinks I'm lying!_ I laugh a little. She also knows that I don't have any friends with whom to socialize after school. At least she's not trying to wrench out of me why I'm so intent on seeing my father. "I'm not going to see a boy, Rosie. I wish I was. Really, I do."

"Hmm." She pauses with her knife again, and scrunches her face in thought. "Is it… Hazelle Hawthorne's son? What's his name again?"

I try not to look horrified, but there's not much I can do about the blush creeping across my cheeks. _She knows his mother? She knows about my infatuation? Oh this can only end badly…._ "Gale," I supply before I realize I've been baited. _Damn_. "He's Katniss' friend," I add, because I feel like I need a legitimate excuse to know his name. "What makes you say that?"

"You never let me answer the door on Saturdays," she says matter-of-factly as she starts on another potato.

_Hell's bells, it's_ that _obvious? _"He hates me, Rose," I say, because that's pretty much all there is to be said on the matter. She just laughs quietly and shakes her head as I scoot out the door. I guess she thinks I'm being dramatic. I wish I was. I wish it were an exaggeration. I think about how I had smiled at him in the square a few days ago, and how I got a blank stare in return. He doesn't have to love me. I gave up on that. I just wish he'd smile back.

When I walk into my father's office his secretary is surprised to see me. I make up some kind of excuse about trying to convince him to make it home in time for dinner because Mom is feeling better today, which isn't a _complete_ lie, and she lets me in to see him.

When he looks up at me, he's a little surprised, too. "Hey, Magpie."

Some nicknames last a day, some stick for months or years; this one looks like it'll be etched on my tombstone. "Hi, Dad. Mom's feeling better, so I wanted to see if you can make it home for supper."

He smiles a little. "I'll see what I can do, but that's not what you're here for, is it?" He produces a sheet of paper and holds it out for me. When I take it, the smile broadens.

I read a list of names and numbers, and when I get to the bottom, my jaw hits the floor.

….

"That… is a very large fish." I stare at the enormous carp that Rory holds up proudly in front of him. For a split second when he'd walked through the door, I was afraid that he'd ventured into the forest without me, but from the looks of the fish and judging by the short amount of time that he'd been gone I'm sure this is not the case. Which is good. Because then I'd have to strangle him.

"How did you catch it?" I ask the question mostly to tread water for a minute; I'm pretty sure I have the scenario figured out.

"Well, they were reviewing the district industries in history class again," (he says this as if it is the most boring thing he's ever been forced to endure) "and they showed us a video of a District Four tribute making a fishhook in the Games one year, and I thought 'Well _I_ can do that,' so I tried it after school today, and it took me a few tries but I caught dinner!" He holds the fish a little higher and beams a little brighter.

It is clear that he thinks this was very clever and (worse) helpful of him. "Where?" I ask to give myself a moment to plan a diplomatic course of action. I'm already pretty sure I know where he caught it.

"In the creek on the other side of the mine."

"Ah." I am bothered by this in more ways than I can count. Not the least of which is the fact that it will probably poison us if we eat it. It's probably the only thing that can survive in that creek. Carp are right up there with cockroaches – despite any horrible disaster that we might cause, those two species will make it through. The chemical runoff that stream carries away from the mine – well, frankly I'm surprised the damn fish isn't glowing at the moment. But then, it's still light out yet.

More than that, though, is the notion that he feels the need to contribute – that he is conscious of how we struggle, and thinks he ought to help more. And _I_ feel that Rory is still too young for that. Those of us who live in the Seam have to grow up too fast as it is, and God knows I did faster than most. I break my back to make sure he won't have to do the same. To make sure he won't have to become _me_ someday. And now it looks like I'm failing.

I glance up at my mother, who looks almost frightened. I assume for the same reasons. I look back at my smiling, eager brother and find that I'm at a loss as to what to do. We shouldn't (or _can't_, more likely) eat the fish, and even if we could it would only encourage him, which is exactly what I do _not_ want to do. But I don't want to make him feel embarrassed, stupid, or worst of all, not good enough. He's more than good enough. He's more than worth the childhood that was taken from me, a thousand times over. All three of them are.

Rory slaps the carp on the kitchen table – the _kitchen fucking table_ – and Vick and Posy clamber over to inspect it curiously. I'm losing ground quickly; I like to think I'm usually pretty sharp, but sometimes some things hit a nerve just so…. It feels like I'm stuck in quicksand, drowning and disoriented, unable to fight my way free.

I am rescued quite suddenly by an urgent pounding at our door. Welcoming the chance to put the impending conversation on hold, I move first to answer it.

The quicksand feeling persists, even doubles over on itself, because Madge Undersee is on the other side of it. _Talk about hitting a nerve_. She is still in her school uniform, but the shirt is untucked, her shoes are muddy, her hair is a mess (again), and she looks like she is about to suffer a heart attack. As she chokes for air, both of her hands fly up and grip my arms. Reflexively, I catch her as her knees give and then wonder distantly why I didn't just let her hit the floor_. Because my mother is watching. Yes. That's why. And this is a nightmare… I'll wake up any second…. _

"Gale," she gasps as I stagger backward a step, "Gale – they gave her an eleven – she can do it – she's an eleven…"

I gape at her for a moment while she slowly loosens her grip and regains her feet because I'm stuck on the way she says my name.

My mother snaps me out of it. "Gale! Let her sit down!" she says as if she cannot comprehend that one of her own offspring could be so rude. I look at her, then Rory and Vick who are also staring in shock, and finally at Posy who dutifully puts all her weight into pulling a rickety chair out from the table.

As I pull my arms carefully away to let Madge stand on her own, I want to think I'm reluctant because I do not want the action to be interpreted as an invitation to stay. If I'm honest, I'd have to say it's also because I might not be ready to let go. However, I'm of the mindset that honesty is sometimes grossly overrated. So I'm _definitely_ ready.

"There," I say, pointing to Posy's chair. "Sit down a minute."

"Oh, thank you!" she says, breathless and smiling as if I'd just offered her a million dollars. She must have run here all the way from town. The fuzzy sense of distraction fades a bit as she steps away from me. _Wait –_ _why did she run all the way here?_

"Eleven? What?"

She plops into the chair, takes another deep breath, smiles brightly. "_Katniss_. They gave her an _eleven_."

I feel an uncomfortable combination of joy and dread that leaves me dumbfounded. All the kids stare at her slack-jawed. My mother, who had taken it upon herself to pour Madge a cup of water, fumbles the cup and spills it on the counter.

"For training?" Mom asks.

"Yes." Her bright blue eyes come back to mine. "She can win."

Mom refills her cup. "You saw the scores?"

"Yes," she says. "It's set and official." She thanks my mother for the water before taking a gulp from the cup, and to her credit she doesn't even pull a face at the taste of well water. I find this irrationally irritating, because I really want a reason to hate her right now. _Why is this so difficult?_

"How do you know where I live?" I ask, because it's the only reasonable thing I have to be annoyed about.

Rory rolls his eyes and answers for her because she's still in the middle of a mouthful of water. "Gale. Everybody's address is in the public directory. She can look it up at the Justice Building." He's right, the little brat, and she nods to confirm this. I feel like I'm two steps behind everyone else. But at least it solves my fish problem – I'm going to fell a lot less awful about telling him we can't eat his catch.

"I thought you'd want to know right away, you know, before they announce it tomorrow. Katniss doesn't even know yet…" She shrugs a little, looks down at her cup as if this is suddenly embarrassing. "I wanted to tell you first, because – do you think I should tell Prim and Mrs. Everdeen? Nothing from the Games is _ever_ good news, but this is as close as it gets… Katniss just always said her mother was so easily upset…."

Even I have to admit this is rather thoughtful of her; my initial knee-jerk reaction was that she ought to have told them _first_, but given Mrs. Everdeen's history, I don't know if it would make things better or worse. It might be wiser to let things run their course, let them hear the announcement tomorrow. So far, Katniss' mother has fared better than I anticipated. Not _well_, but better. An eleven score has only been awarded, what, five or six times in the history of the Hunger Games? It may be the closest thing to good news we can hope for, but it's hardly a free ticket home.

"I'll tell them," I say.

"Okay." She sets her empty cup on the edge of the table, and is in the middle of thanking my mother again when she notices Rory's carp, which regards her with lidless indifference. A mean little part of me is weirdly elated because now certainly she'll be disgusted, she'll turn up her nose and prove me right. Hating her will get less complicated.

"That's a really big fish," she says. No disgust, no disdain. Maybe just a little amazement. _Dammit_.

"Yes, and I'm sorry my son _put it on the table where we eat_," my mother says threateningly. Rory immediately moves the fish to the sink.

"It's okay," Madge says. "I just can't believe it took me that long to notice it."

"I caught it for supper," Rory explains proudly. _Here we go again_.

"Wow. Good job," she says, pouring fuel on the fire. "It looks like it could've pulled you in instead of you pulling it out!"

My brother eats this up like a bowl of ice cream. I know this for a fact because Katniss and I scraped enough together a couple years ago to buy him one for his birthday, and he had the exact same look on his face. It pisses me off.

"We can't eat it, Rory," I say flatly before I can stop myself, "not if it came out of the runoff stream." I regret it the moment I see his face. He is no less than utterly crestfallen. I don't need to turn to my mother to know what look she's giving me right now. She doesn't need to bother, though; I'm perfectly aware that I'm a wretched human being. I've gone and done exactly what I had been trying to avoid. And I don't know how to fix it now.

Because I forget myself, somehow with _something_, every time Madge is there. It's _maddening_.

Then, suddenly, as if it's the easiest thing in the world, Madge shrugs lightly and says, "Even better. Cut him up for bait. Just _think_ what all you could catch with that. Supper for a _week_."

I nod in confirmation, Rory smiles again, and I am forgiven. Just like that. Easiest thing in the world. Fixed. _Unbelievable_.

As Madge rises and excuses herself to leave, it finally occurs to me that I've been so distressed by everything else I've hardly processed what she came here to tell us – Katniss is an eleven. _Eleven. _Not a number awarded lightly. A number that gets sponsors. A number that means she has a damn good shot at coming home. A number that means I might see her again after all. Hope becomes a little more real.

I dash to the door just as she steps outside. Startled, she turns and stares at me wide-eyed, and I look down and somewhere to her left because I find that I still can't say the words to her face.

"Thank you."

She smiles (I think), and says "You're welcome," and hesitates a moment as if one of us ought to say something else before she walks away. Neither of us do it though, and she leaves to go home.

I realize that I can't be angry at her, as much as I want to and as hard as I try. As awful as I've been to her, she still runs all the way to the Seam to tell me my friend has a chance to win the Games. _Cockroaches, carp, and Madge Fucking Undersee_. I shut the door and lean back against it, cover my eyes with one hand and try to collect myself before I face the well-deserved earful that's surely coming from my mother. Honesty may be occasionally overrated, but it's usually a hell of a lot less complicated. _Give it up, Hawthorne. You don't hate her._


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note**

**Very short one this time (to make up for the very long one last time, I suppose). I had written this, decided to cut it out, and halfway through the next chapter decided that it needed to stay after all. The story seemed a little disjointed without this scene, so for the sake of _flow_ here it is. I considered making it a part of the next chapter, but it didn't work very well that way. I may still go back and rework this once the next chapter is done and split them more evenly, but for now I'm leaving it like this. Feedback is appreciated.**

**Also, I fixed my summary... SO EMBARASSING. I pride myself on being articulate, but I wrote that summary half asleep at something like 1:30 in the morning and never bothered to look at it again until now. I guess it still _kind of_ makes sense the old way, but ... now it's more correct. The _reader_ infers, the _writer_ implies. Not the other way round. Misusing words is one of by biggest pet peeves - right up there with misplaced apostrophes. Thank you for reading; next chapter should hopefully not take too long to post.**

**...**

It's raining lightly when we gather in the square for the training score announcement. Luckily, this is one of the mandatory events that doesn't take very long. They cycle through the tributes and flash their ranks on screen in big bold numbers, Caesar Flickerman babbles a few lines to tease for the interviews to be aired tomorrow, and they send us on their way. Details are never shared. God forbid the gamemakers spoil any surprises about how any of the contestants are going to kill each other. _That_ would take the _fun_ out of it.

I stand with my brothers and sister at the back of the crowd again (prepared to make a hasty retreat as soon as this is over) while my mother wanders away for a few minutes to talk to a friend. Even from here I can see reporters milling about where Prim and her mother are standing at the front of the crowd. I've spoken very little to Prim since Reaping Day, only when I'd stopped by to drop off food or make sure her mother was still alive. Part of me feels sorry for her, part of me is glad she is safe, and part of me is angry because if it weren't for her Katniss would still be here which makes the last little part of me feel like a monster. I guess time will mitigate those feelings, but for now they make conversation unbearably uncomfortable. Still, Prim seemed to tacitly understand to leave my name unmentioned to the vultures that hound her at every event. But that doesn't mean someone else won't.

The kids start getting antsy at the waiting, and Vick begins stomping one foot in a puddle with the very specific intention of soaking Rory's pants. Rory become justifiably annoyed and sets to putting his brother into an improvised arm-lock, which only encourages the splashing. I pry them apart and place myself strategically between them to prevent an otherwise _guaranteed_ round of name-calling.

Without Rory to draw his attention, Vick tugs at my sleeve hard enough to shake raindrops off the edge of my hood and onto the both of us. "Gale! Gale! When are they going to say Katniss is an ele-"

I clap a hand over his mouth just before he can get the whole word out. I don't get a chance to give further instruction because Posy starts in, hands-on-hips and full-on bossy.

"Vick! Nobody's supposed to know she's –"

She gets my free hand clamped over her mouth also. "Quit it, Mom Junior, not your job. And you're being just as loud." We could get in a lot of trouble finding out about this ahead of time. And so could Madge for telling us.

….

A flash onscreen cues the Anthem, and people start to settle. I feel a strange sense of excitement and pride for this morbid event, because I know what is coming before anyone else does.

The crowd applauds when Peeta Mellark's "8" lights up the screen; it is one of the better scores ever awarded to a District Twelve tribute. Usually people in the square are morose even on the rare occasion that respectable scores are handed out – the Hunger Games are for the Capitol and the Capitol only. But this year, the fact that downtrodden Twelve has outshined – quite literally – the Capitol's pet districts seems an act of defiance in itself. And everyone loves it.

Then they scroll through the list of female tributes, and to be honest, I hardly see a single one of them. I'm waiting for the one that matters. And when her picture comes on, next to one of the highest scores ever awarded _in the history of the Games_, the square erupts. Cheers and whistles fill the air, hats are tossed overhead, people embrace each other and jump up and down for the joy and hope they can no longer contain. For a moment, not even the rain can touch us.

I look for Gale across the sea of bodies to see his reaction, wishing that he's finding a way to hope. I can see him smile from under the hood of his jacket and point at the screen, and for a fleeting moment he even appears to laugh. I lose his face when he bends down; when he comes back up he has his sister in his arms. He points again and she claps excitedly now that she can see what's going on. Then, suddenly, his eyes find mine. But I don't get the glare of contempt that I've come to expect as a matter of course. My heart skids to a stop as one corner of his mouth pulls faintly upward, and his head gives the smallest nod in my direction before he turns to shepherd his siblings back home. And it's like it was never raining at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note**

**Disclaimer Again: There is a piece of dialogue in this chapter that is lifted directly from The Hunger Games, and therefore does not belong to me. You all know this; I'm just minding my Ps and Qs.**

**Request Again: Please review. This is another chapter that I think I still need to tweak. Finding stuff in my mailbox makes my day! Thank you for reading, and even more for your feedback.**

**Apology Again: Fixed embarassing typos. Again. Also, I fear I may be losing my audience because I am pacing the "romance" part of this story rather slowly (there has been some frustration with Gale expressed in some of the messages I've received; truthfully, he frustrates me, too, which is why he's one of my favorites). Stay with me, I beg of you! We're getting there - I just want it to be 1) believable and 2) worth it in the end ;)**

I am on eggshells all day at school because I'm not home to keep track of my mother. I try to be glad that she's doing so well, but it's also putting her at some risk. She spends more time out of bed now, which means there is more opportunity for interaction with the Capitol media team staying with us. And we can't exactly explain to them that it's the Hunger Games that do this to her, which is the one thing they all want to talk about. When I'm home I usually try to keep them engaged myself, or keep my mother away from them, but I can't be there all day. Rose runs interference pretty well, but she's not in today, and my father is of course at work preparing for the Interview show tonight. Mom is alone to fend for herself, and I fear that even a brief encounter with a reporter might set her back to Reaping Day or worse. At least there is one small comfort to be had from the fact that no one remembers fallen tributes: no one from the Capitol realizes that her sister died in the last Quarter Quell. If those twisted bottom-feeders knew that – well, I'm sure I'd have come home to Marianne Donner-Undersee prone in bed next to four empty vials of morphling days ago.

I decide I can't take it about an hour after lunchtime, so I feign illness halfway through math class. I turns out that threatening to vomit will get you out of just about anything. I am sent home immediately. When I get there, I find the tall green man and the reporter with orange hair (I've privately named them Lima Bean and Tangerine) in the parlor, but not my mother. I offer a polite hello as I pass them to head up the stairs, and luckily they are too absorbed in poring over a printed manuscript to pay me much attention. From the snippet of conversation I overhear, it seems that they are busy dissecting last night's friends-and-family interviews into clips for propos to be aired throughout the Games.

My mother isn't in bed, and she isn't in the bathroom, but she isn't hanging from the rafters either. _So far, so good_. I go to my room so I can see out my window, which overlooks the garden below; this is where I find her, sitting calmly on the small bench set amidst several patches of ox-eye daisies. Relieved, I allow myself a moment to change clothes and repair my ponytail.

She notices me when I walk out the back door and waves with a small smile. "You're home early."

"I wasn't feeling very well," I answer. I'd rather let her do a little unnecessary maternal fretting than make an excuse that school was let out early, because the only reason school is _ever_ let out early is for the Games. I flop onto the bench next to her and let her pet my hair soothingly while I fake a sniffle.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she says.

"I'm glad _you're_ doing better," I say, and I mean it. "Maybe we can go for a walk again tonight?" I want to keep her active; the less time she has to dwell on nightmares the better, and I know from experience that if she spends too much time idle too soon after starting to improve she'll fall back to where she started.

"Not if you're not feeling well. You should rest."

"I'll be okay, Mom," I say. "I'll rest this afternoon and I'll be fine by dinnertime. It'll do me some good to get back up and move around a little."

She sighs to acknowledge that she has lost this battle. Frail fingers tuck a lock of hair behind my ear as she says, "I always said you favored your aunt. Nothing but fight in you, even for the smallest things." I hold my breath while I wait for her to break down; this is exactly what I did not want to happen. But her hand just moves to my forehead and rests there for a few seconds. "Like a cold. You don't feel warm. If you are later, though, you're going straight to bed after you eat."

"Fair enough," I breathe, amazed that we have escaped this conversation unscathed. She seldom mentions her sister aloud, and never without pain. I hug her quickly and rise to leave; I don't want to bring more damaging memories to the surface with my presence. It breaks my heart that I might be half the problem.

Inside I start a kettle of stew (my favorite thing to cook because it requires minimal effort and only dirties one pot) to simmer until suppertime, and boil some water for tea to share. The vultures and I have some things to discuss before we go to the Square. Like the fact that _surely_ a talented team such as theirs _must_ have dug up some details about this year's arena ahead of time, because I am _dying_ to know. I beg sweetly and nudge a plate of cookies toward them when I see them exchange a loaded glance, and after that it's not long before I'm sworn to secrecy and get a detailed recap of what Tangerine (whom I address as _Claudia_ to her face) proudly weaseled out of a junior gamemaker before departing for District Twelve. She revels in the chance to tell what she learned, because her superiors left her _miserably_ disappointed – they had refused at the last moment to publish her story for fear of punishment from Snow. As I sip my tea innocently, I wonder what kind of weaseling she did.

She describes a lake, a wheat field, wooded hills with a stream. I scooch up to the very edge of my seat and ask if she'd heard about any of the traps that had been set there, but when she pouts that she had not been able to get any of _that_ information, I'm pretty sure she's being truthful. I abandon that tack and act confused about the landscape, drawing a pathetically inaccurate diagram in midair with one finger until Lima Bean (Marcus) grabs a pen and draws one for me himself. By the time we have to leave to go to the Viewing, I have a detailed, labeled, almost-to-scale map of this year's arena. Elated, I tell them I will watch the Games with it so I can keep track of what's going on, and that I'm _so lucky_ to have them staying with us because otherwise I'd be _lost_. And so would Haymitch.

When I finally head to the Square, it's all I can do not to turn cartwheels all the way there. Mentors aren't given any more information about the arena than average viewers, which means only what is shown on camera during the Games, often making it difficult to discern the overall layout of the area. My father's colleagues have tried to acquire this information from the Senior gamemaker they had on the inside, but he (with all the others) is carefully monitored by the Capitol during the weeks the Hunger Games are planned, and exchange of information has been difficult or impossible. Apparently, junior gamemakers were subjected to far less scrutiny. _Also a useful thing to know_.

I find a place to stand near the front of the crowd where I can see everything. Dad sees me from his podium and waves, bringing on a new wave of excitement. I want so badly to rush up there and tell him what I've found out, but I just smile and wave back_. Not with so many people watching. In time_. He directs a few people where to go, taps his microphone to make sure it is turned on, makes a quick announcement to settle the crowd before the Anthem begins.

I have always liked to think I'm not a materialistic person. Though I am far more fortunate than my peers, I have never felt any particular special attachment to the things that I have. I'd trade any or all of them – the nice clothes, my piano, even hot water in the shower - in less than a heartbeat if need be; none of them take the places of the mother that I miss or the father for whom I worry or the friends that I wish I had.

That said, I am utterly consumed by bone-breaking, soul-devouring envy at the sight of Katniss Everdeen's interview dress. If someone had offered it to me in exchange for taking my father to Peacekeeper Cray… I still wouldn't have done it, but it would have given me pause. Most interview attire is over-the-top; less theatrical than the costumes for the Opening Ceremony, but outrageous in a more formal, elegant, _expensive_ way. The work of art she wears onstage probably costs the sum-total of the entire Seam's wages for a year. Every inch of the impeccably tailored gown is comprised of sparkling jewels, arranged meticulously by color to evoke the pattern of dancing flames. When she moves toward Caesar Flickerman a hush falls over the audience – on screen and in the square – because the fire seems to roar to life.

Thank goodness, I suppose, because my friend needs all the help she can get and if Cinna's show-stopping work distracts potential sponsors from the fact that interviewing is not her strong suit then so be it. Katniss has many admirable, likable qualities – she is loyal, intelligent, honest to a fault. Tough as nails. Kind-hearted in a gruff sort of way. But charming she is not.

Her stylist saves her; when she starts to lose the audience, the host prompts her to twirl and show off Cinna's handiwork. The jeweled flames leap to life again, and she is beautiful beyond words.

I wonder what Gale thinks of her. I know where he is standing – in the same place he always does – but I make a point not to look. _Probably a lot of things I wish he'd think about me_.

Caesar Flickerman works his way through the male tributes and it's all pretty standard fare. Largely indistinguishable from all the other years. I spare a glance for Prim Everdeen and her mother, who are assaulted again by the heartless reporters with whom I've been obligated to share my home. Mrs. Everdeen looks as always like she is barely hanging on by a very thin thread, but Prim takes the spotlight and answers all their questions with gushing, teary-eyed enthusiasm. Just like in the Justice Building, the day they took her Katniss away from her. I find it sickening that they do this to her, that they've learned to love the fact that she refuses to mourn her sister yet, that they make her bear the burden of their presence because her mother cannot. In my mind's eye, I punch each one of them in the face as hard as I can when they file in the door tonight and tell them in no uncertain terms that they are all soulless bastards. But as much as I'd love it, I can't do that. I need them to like me and to remain unsuspecting. So I make a mental note to sweep the kitchen floor and empty the dustpan in their stew at dinner.

The show grabs my attention again when Peeta Mellark begins to speak. It quickly becomes apparent that he is in his element; he wins over the audience with ease as he chats with his host.

"Handsome lad like you," Flickerman says. "There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?"

"Well," says Peeta, "there is this one girl, I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the Reaping."

_Oh, please don't let it be me_, I think as I shrink a bit into the crowd. I think of the times he'd been nice to me at his family's bakery when no one else was. _How awful would I feel then?_

"She have another fellow?" Flickerman asks sympathetically. I think of Gale again, and how Katniss had always said their relationship was never romantic – and how the media team would _love_ to think it was.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her."

I feel my shoulders slump in relief. _That settles it. Definitely not me._

"So here's what you do: you win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?"

Peeta smiles in an adorably awkward way, and then singlehandedly turns the Hunger Games on its ear. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning… won't help in my case."

I cover my open mouth with one hand to try to hide my shock because I pick up on it even before Caesar Flickerman does. "Why ever not?" he asks with surprise.

"Because… because… she came here with me."

….

When the camera pans to Katniss' face, she is flabbergasted in weirdly composed way. I guess she has to be, since her life depends on these events. They focus on Peeta Mellark again, and I snort disdainfully. _Whatever_. It's not like she just announced that she has a crush on _him_.

I'm unaccustomed to seeing Katniss made up so extravagantly, and though she was stunning during her interview I know her well enough to tell that she wasn't comfortable, she wasn't _herself_. _The sponsors with the money are the ones from the Capitol, not from here. Best to appeal to them first_. I'd never seen her look so beautiful, and this vibrant picture of strength and resilience was a step closer to the Katniss that I love, but she still wasn't as captivating as the girl with the bow and hiking boots and stubborn force of will. She may have a good chance at coming home from the Games, but I can't help but fear that _that_ girl is slipping away.

Katniss is still twirling away at the back of my mind as I herd my siblings away from the crowd and toward my mother. They will be letting us go in a minute or two, and I don't want to get stuck without an escape route. Posy goes on and on about Katniss' dress and how she wants one someday except hers will have _purple_ jewels on it, too, because that's her favorite color (today). Mom laughs at her, but I can tell she's caught between finding her daughter's latest obsession funny and heartbreaking. Posy will be lucky if she gets a plain cotton dress _dyed_ purple in her lifetime. We can't even afford to _look_ at jewels in a shop window.

An announcement is made to send us home, and I fight the urge to run. As badly as I want to get away, I do _not_ want to do anything to draw attention to myself. I am intimately familiar with predator-prey behavior, but I don't particularly like being on this side of it. A glance over my shoulder confirms that the Capitol media team is busy with the baker's family; apparently even adorable Primrose Everdeen can't compete with the drama of a no-longer-secret condemned-to-death crush. _Good. Poor kid deserves a break_.

We're about a block from the square and making good time when I hear my name behind me. I recognize the voice instantly, though it's calmer, less breathless than before. Than what I'd replayed (somewhat guiltily) in my head the last two days.

Madge Undersee trots up behind us, and I'm surprised to see that her face is dead serious. "Gale," she says, "I need to talk to you."

I waver for a moment; I'm not in the mood to waste time, but the urgency in her tone pulls me in. _Maybe she has more information? _I stop and tell my mother that I'll catch up to her and the kids in a minute.

I look back at Madge expectantly, keeping one eye on the end of the road that opens into the square. She wilts a little under my gaze, so I do my best to adopt a less hostile stance. Perhaps it will make her more willing to tell me what she knows.

"Listen," she says, as she steps a little closer and lowers her voice so passers-by will be less likely to overhear. "These… _Capitol people_," (she spits the words with venom, which I decide earns her a few points) "they're going to eat this up, about what Peeta said. And he just did her a huge favor-"

"If I know Katniss, he probably just royally pissed her off," I say, a little more snappishly than I intended. I don't feel like listening to how this is good news.

"I don't-" she begins, but she closes her blue eyes for half a second and pauses as if thinking very hard about what I'd just said. "Actually, you're probably right. But that's neither here nor there."

"What do you want?" I ask, looking over her shoulder again for any sign of reporters. There are none, but I catch sight of Bristel in the crowd. Which is almost worse. Especially considering that when he sees me, he deliberately chooses not to walk over and interrupt. Instead, he folds his arms over his chest and leans against the corner of an old building with an evil grin on his face.

Her eyes close again and her lips purse, as if she is gathering all her patience. She follows my eyes behind her, and says, "I promise, I'm not here to embarrass you in front of your friends."

Suddenly, for reasons I can't explain, I feel awful. But I'm not ready to apologize. "I don't want to get caught by that media team." There. An explanation is as close as I'm willing to get.

"Ugh, try _living_ with them," she says as she runs a hand through her hair, a gesture that would look rather alluring if not for the fact that it looks like it's taking all her self-control not to rip it out of her head. "Look, they're the problem. Peeta just made District Twelve _the _tributes to sponsor. They'll get a hold of you eventually, and when they do, they'll never believe you're _just_ Katniss' _friend_."

"Why not?" I ask, shocked and not sure what else to say. _Had Katniss said something to her?_

For some reason, Madge finds this question difficult. She colors and squirms a little before finally breaking eye contact. "They just won't. _I_ know you are, but believe me, they _won't_. So when they talk to you, tell them you're related, you're her cousin or _something_ to explain why you're so close. Because she needs _this_" she jerks a thumb back toward the zoo in the square, "to survive." When her eyes come back to mine, they are wide and pleading and ….

"Okay. I can do that." Whatever will help get Katniss home.

She smiles brightly, which causes my stomach to flip in a way that is only partly uncomfortable. "Good. Okay. I'll tell you if I find out anything else. Now go, get out of here."

The moment Madge turns to walk away, Bristel abandons his post on the corner across the street and comes my way. _Great_. I start walking, and wave him on to catch up- I know it's too late to escape him, but I don't want to hang around any longer than I already have.

"So, you get into it with Undersee again?" He elbows me in the ribs. "Or you _get into it_ with Undersee?"

I scowl at him. "Screw you."

"Defensive, are we?"

"No. To both questions. And you're a pig."

"Takes one to know one."

"At least I'm quieter about it. And what do you mean _again_?"

"C'mon. It's all over that you two were at each other's throats last week in the lunchroom at school. I was wondering why you were such a mess."

_When it rains, it pours_. "'At each other's throats' is an exaggeration."_ How is this happening to me? Why am I friends with him? _"And there's _no_ getting into _anything_ with her. An argument is a far cry from a tryst."

He laughs at me like he knows something I don't, and I'm thankful that decides to drop it. Because I'm not entirely sure I believe myself.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note**

**I shall repeat my apology from Chapter 9 for those who read the chapter before I added it: I fear I may be losing my audience because I am pacing the "romance" part of this story rather slowly. (There has been some frustration with Gale expressed in some of the messages I've received; truthfully, he frustrates me, too, which is why he's one of my favorites). I know, I know, ten chapters in and still not much but - stay with me, I beg of you! We're getting there - I just want it to be 1) believable and 2) worth it in the end ;) **

Rory's carp gets me five fat raccoons. I can hardly believe it. I find two in snares, and then pick off three more while I lie in wait with my bow and they trundle down the path. Part of me even feels a little stupid for not trying this sooner, though to be fair I never had much to spare for bait. With this many I can afford to keep a pelt for myself. As the youngest, poor Posy often gets the worst of the hand-me-downs, the battle-tested survivors of three older brothers. For once, she'll get a brand new pair of fur mittens this winter. They may not be a gem-encrusted dress, but they'll keep her hands warm.

I dawdle a little in the woods today; there's no hurry to get to school (not that I've ever been especially concerned about punctuality in that respect) because it is cancelled for the first day of the Games. It's getting easier to love the forest again, and I want to enjoy the feeling before it might be damaged beyond repair in a few hours. I skin, gut, and dismember a raccoon with unusual precision; the extra concentration required distracts me from the worry that's dampening the small, uneasy ember of hope I'm trying to keep alight. Once in pieces, this one will go to Prim; she has a soft spot for cute furry things, and if that awful cat qualifies then there's a good chance a raccoon will, too. The less recognizable it is when I give it to her, the better. I don't go to this much trouble with the others. I'll keep one, and the other three will go to the Hob whole (relieved of their pelts, of course, because why should I let the buyer have the chance to resell the fur?).

I reserve a few slivers of bait for the pond where I know I can find catfish; they'll eat anything that will hold still long enough and that they think they can swallow. It seems a little weird to entice them with bits and pieces of one of their relatives, but I guess that's what they get for being lower on the food chain and not very picky at mealtime. I weave a basket-like trap from yew switches and cattail stalks, something I haven't done since Katniss left because of the time it takes to do it. I'd been unwilling to allow myself so much time to think. Now that I've had some practice at telling myself that she's coming back, I'm getting more comfortable with letting my mind wander. I remember how she'd marveled at the contraption the first time I'd shown it to her, how amused I'd been, how it seemed impossible at the time that I could ever think of her as anything besides a dumb kid. How she'd been astonishingly relentless, and it took a long time, but she earned my respect. And with more time, my trust. And a few short months ago (which are starting to feel like an eternity) more than that. Once I turn the funneled mouth properly inward and get the whole thing submerged, I stake it in place with a sharpened tree branch, and I all I have to do is wait. And I'm pretty good at doing that.

The sunlight that plays on the ripples in the water makes me think of Madge and her golden ponytail and mockingjay pin, but even though the pin was a gift to Katniss I can't seem to get thoughts of the two of them to jibe. Katniss is my friend. Madge, for reasons that are beyond my control, will never be more than a _customer_. And things that I cannot control make me angry. I find that I no longer have the patience to sit by the water.

On a whim, I decide I ought to scrounge up something green to go with our meal while the trap collects fish. This was something Katniss was always better at; she always knew what was edible, and of that what was palatable. I know the basics, but I've never been inclined to bother with much more than that. She'd always tease me that my botanical knowledge left something to be desired, and to get even I'd remind her that she couldn't set a decent snare if her life depended on it. Now, the memory of our friendly jabs stings as it comes to mind. Now, her life _might_. I smile a little to myself, because her snare-setting has improved vastly since I met her. _She'll be fine. _On the other hand, though I've gotten better, I _still_ can't tell the difference between boneset and snakeroot. Which is unfortunate, because snakeroot will kill you.

….

The annual bloodbath begins at noon, and it is eating a hole through my insides. At the same time, I want the hour to never come and to start _now_ so it's over with. My father had been ecstatic when I presented him with my map of the arena, and the flare of hope I'd felt even outshined a selfish wave of pride for my accomplishment. Now I feel useless. I've done what little I can, and in the light of day I have to admit it's very little in the grand scheme of things. Everything is so far beyond my control at this point that I can't even continue to entertain the illusion that a tiny bit was ever within it.

To keep my mind occupied and to get some fresh air, I wander outside and offer to help our gardener with the weeding. I started doing when I was small, much to Mr. Aaron's consternation, and over the years it has stuck with me. As I have gotten older, I've become much better able to discern the difference between the weeds and the "keepers" and am able to exercise better self control when picking flowers (I had on one occasion cleared out an entire bed of phlox for a bouquet for my ailing mother because at age four I decided that five or six stems _just wouldn't do_). I still don't know Mr. Aaron's first name. I don't think Mom or Dad or even Rose does. He gives me his gloves so I can pull up prickly thistles without hurting myself while he fiddles with the wire mesh surrounding the vegetables that still fails to confound our rather determined rabbit.

The work doesn't take me long, and I consider for a moment going back inside and practicing on the piano, but my mother is likely still taking her nap and I don't want to wake her. I miss my music very much, and it always seems that the times I need it most coincide with the times she needs the quiet. So I walk around the front of the house to dead-head the rows of day lilies planted there. I hum the tune of the etude I've been working on to myself as I pull out the dried stalks, and try to imagine the keystrokes needed to play it. Every so often I pause and move my fingers over the notes, which I am certain probably makes me look crazy to anyone who happens by. I choose not to care, because most everyone treats me like a leper anyway.

I freeze in the middle of a c-sharp because I suddenly feel like I'm being watched closely, and I turn to find that Gale Hawthorne has appeared in my front yard. He has a bag slung over his shoulder and a smaller one in the other hand, his expression stoic as usual, just how he always looks when he comes on Saturdays. I try to smile at him and find it difficult; it is unnerving that I never even heard him coming. Furthermore, I'm horrifically embarrassed by yesterday's conversation with him. When he'd asked me why none of the Capitol reporters would think he was only Katniss' friend, and the only thing I could think for what seemed like ages was _no one will (and I can't) believe she doesn't want you._ I feel my face redden a little again.

"You weed your own flowers?" he says, cocking his head just enough to make his dark hair fall in the way of his pretty eyes.

_Breathe, Madge. Blink_. I nod. Words seem to get stuck on the way out. I find the question irksome, but I'm determined not to show it. He probably finds the frivolity of an ornamental flower garden irksome. _We're even, then. _Belatedly, I realize that I'm still holding the c-sharp so I brush my hands off awkwardly against my pants.

He studies me silently for another moment, as if carefully digesting my response. Then he holds up the small bag at arm's length, and nods at it when it becomes clear that I missed the fact that I'm supposed to take it.

"Strawberries are still green yet," he explains as I open the crackly paper to find ripe blueberries.

The smiling gets a little easier, because we are back in familiar territory. _There you go getting carried away again, Madge. He and I. _"Okay," I say. I'm not partial to blueberries myself, but I'm sure my father will take them. "Dad will like these. Let me run inside real quick – how much?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. They're for _you_."

I stare at him, and it's my turn to cock my head curiously. I feel like my heart and my stomach just abruptly switched places. _For _me_?_ "Oh." _That's it?_ I scream inside my head. _He gives you a gift and that's all you have to say? _

His steady gaze falls away for a second. "I owed you one," he says simply, and something in his voice implies that he still feels that his debt has still not been adequately repaid.

I'd never tell him that, any more than I'd tell him that I don't care for blueberries, and I don't think I could convince him that he doesn't owe me anything. Most of all, I do not want to discourage this tenuous truce that he has established between us. Somehow I understand that this is a gesture of enormous gravity for him. "Thank you," I manage, surprised and a little awestruck.

He nods again, meets my eyes for the tiniest moment, and starts to walk away.

A kind of courage I never knew I possessed prompts me to say his name. "Gale?" He looks over one broad shoulder, and it takes everything I have to continue to speak. "I don't want to watch this alone." I can't hold his gaze while my voice wavers. "Can I stand with you and your family in the square today?"

I half expect him to ignore me, but he doesn't. Instead, he turns, takes a few steps closer to me, and reaches one hand toward my face. My heart and stomach correct themselves almost painfully. He removes a dead leaf from my hair with such care that if I hadn't been watching I don't think I'd have known he'd done it. He hands me the offending thing, and one corner of his mouth quirks into that almost-smile.

"Yeah. Okay." And he leaves. Just like that.

I look down at my hands, stunned. The two things most precious to me in this world are a dead piece of foliage and a sack of berries I don't even like. _Who needs a jeweled dress?_

_..._

_Footnote: Boneset (pronounced "Bone-Set") and snakeroot are both real species found in the Appalachia region, and are nearly indistinguishable to the untrained eye. Boneset was commonly used as an effective fever-reducer until aspirin became widely available (it is still a staple of Appalachian folk medicine), and snakeroot is highly toxic (it is the plant responsible for milk sickness). I imagine that someone like Katniss, whose mother is an expert in herbal medicine and who maintains the family "plant book," would be able to tell them apart. I confess that I was a little disappointed that S.C. left out little intersting details like this in _The Hunger Games_. I'm a nerd with a degree in anthropology - can you tell? _


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:**

**Thank you all for the overwhelming response to the last chapter - it seems to have been popular :) We all need a little sappiness now and then. **

**Also, I have started a poll! I'll spare you the details here - please take a look at my profile for all of that.**

**Finally - a WARNING for this chapter for some brief but graphic violence. But if you've read _The Hunger Games_, well, then you know. **

I expect to find the Hawthornes in the same place I always do, at the west end of the Square near the edge of the crowd and poised to make a quick getaway as soon as we are all permitted to go. This is the last mandatory event for a while; after the bloodbath is over everyone is expected to watch the Games at home on their own televisions. I'm not sure what's worse – the public spectacle or the private misery. It's one thing to be forced to watch it in the middle of town, and another to have to welcome it into your own home.

I wander a bit and look around, trying not to appear lost because it's obvious that I'm incredibly out of place. When I cannot find anyone that I know after a few minutes, I start to feel awful. Has he forgotten so soon after such an unusual display of kindness? Or has he deliberately changed his mind? He had never made a secret of the fact that he does not like me much, but I never expected him to be _cruel_. I waver between fury and heartbreak, and it is nauseating because this is something simpler and deeper than a silly, hopeless crush or a debt to be paid. I need so much not to be alone for once, for this crucial moment. My only friend can win the Hunger Games, but only if she survives the Cornucopia. I have faith in her, but this is the part that will decide her fate. I feel my eyes start to sting because though I am in the midst of thousands of people, I have no one with whom to share the burden of my worry.

"Madge-"

I snap my head around at the sound of my name, and come face to face with Rory Hawthorne.

"Gale told me to come get you." He beckons for me to follow him. "We're up front today. He said we should keep Prim and Mrs. E company."

The sudden flux of emotions feels like it breaks some ribs, but even that is a relief. I trail behind him gratefully, and I find that although I've always had great respect for what Gale does for his family I am coming to appreciate – and admire – the greater sense of honor to which he holds himself bound. He doesn't like me, but he's willing to admit I've done him a favor. To even give a gift to repay it. He agreed take my advice about interviews, because though he'd rather not, he's willing to admit we share common ground in wanting to keep the Girl on Fire ablaze. He's willing to let me spend an hour or two with him and his family, because despite the resentment he harbors for the life I lead, he appreciates that I'm afraid for our friend. And though he is not thrilled enough about this obligation to come get me himself, he sends his brother to make sure I'm not left behind. On top of all of that, he's willing to offer the support of his family's presence to the Everdeens, even if it means that there will be no escaping the Capitol reporters now.

I've had a crush on Gale Hawthorne for _years_. But this is the exact and precise moment that I fall in love with him.

….

Rory returns with Madge Undersee following close behind. She manages a pained smile of thanks when she sees me, and I lose my place for a moment in the argument I'm currently having with my sister. _How does she always knock me off kilter? _I partly regain myself when her bright eyes shift from me to Prim and she goes to offer words of encouragement. I'd never thought I'd say it, but I'm actually glad she's here. Talking to Katniss' sister is still a challenge, and today is worse than usual. I can't catch what she says over the crowd noise and Posy's chattering, but she coaxes a small smile from Prim. Rory finds this to be a convenient excuse to initiate conversation for himself, and watching his maneuvering is entertainment all its own. He positions himself next to her, close enough to be supportive but still not so far from his own family members as to be embarrassingly obvious. It doesn't matter much, because the art of subtlety is completely lost on my brother – a blind man can see the girl is the only person standing in this hellhole as far as Rory's concerned. Mom pulls Vick with her as she moves around them to Mrs. Everdeen, and makes a valiant (if largely unsuccessful) effort at conversation. These little futile gestures amaze me; holding the Everdeens together is holding us together.

"Gale!" Posy says as she smacks me impatiently in the shoulder. "I still can't see good! Why can't I sit on your shoulders?"

I scramble to remember the excuse I'd prepared. The real answer to the question is that last year, when we had tried to keep her from watching too closely, she managed to peek anyway and then had nightmares, which meant that the Hawthornes (and half the Seam) got no sleep for a week and a half. Posy doesn't remember that, which is a mixed blessing because it means she still _really_ wants to watch. I already tried to convince her that Katniss will not be wearing her "jewelry dress," to no avail. I have her strategically balanced on a hip, so she has to face behind me, away from most of the screens.

"You're getting too heavy," I say, which is not the original out I had planned but I hope it'll do in a pinch. _Damn it, Madge_. You have to have all your wits about you to argue with a four-year-old.

"You let _Vick_ do it," she says with the kind of exasperation that only a toddler can express.

Part of me is pleased that she is too smart for that one, part of me just wishes she'd take _no_ for an answer. "Pose, my neck is sore. I slept funny last night. It didn't hurt when I let Vick do it. And you're squirmy."

She sighs dramatically, but she is suddenly distracted by the person standing next to us. Madge eases her way back toward me, I suppose because of all of us I am the one she is most familiar with. I study the way her lips curve when she smiles at my sister's shy _hello_, the way she cocks her head to reveal a smooth, perfect expanse of skin from ear to collarbone. She may never look at me the way I look at her, but at least she's not embarrassed to be seen with us. I'll give her that.

The mayor's voice booms over the loudspeakers, followed by the shrill whine of feedback. Everyone cringes and stops dead; after another harsh pop, he announces that the broadcast is about to begin. Without thinking, I lock eyes with Madge and in her face is an exact reflection of the gnawing anxiety that I just felt bite down _hard_.

….

Claudius Templesmith lists the names and districts of all the Tributes – one final roll call – as their promo photos flash onscreen. Peeta and Katniss are shown last, of course, and this time there is no cheering, no whistling, no dancing. This is the moment of truth. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!"

The picture fades into a view of a large, flat expanse of packed earth and pans from a treeline to the towering, golden Cornucopia overflowing with food, provisions, and instruments of death. Something at the mouth of the cone catches my eye just before the camera sweeps on to the semicircle of tributes rising from the ground.

"Gale," I breathe without looking away from the screen, "did you see-?"

"A bow," he whispers back.

"They gave her a bow – she can-"

His gray eyes narrow critically. "No. It's a trap…."

It takes me a second to follow, but I see it through his eyes, the bow, the training score, all of it – they've painted a target on her back, and baited a snare. She needs that bow if she wants to live, but getting to it will kill her….

"She wouldn't – not like-"

He cuts me off, and his tone has an angry edge. "She might." His jaw clenches, he shakes his head.

"She isn't stupid," I say, even as we both see her shift her weight like she is preparing to make a mad dash for her weapon of choice.

"She picked a fight with a bear over a honeycomb."

"She – what?"

"_Dammit_, Katniss, don't…."

Then she looks inexplicably distracted for a few seconds, the bow forgotten as she squints off toward her right. Exactly when the gong sounds. And the Girl on Fire is two paces behind everyone else. No one breathes. Because the distance between life and death in the arena is less than inches.

Peeta shouts to a few of the tributes from the career districts, and one of them points as if to give directions. They break for the horn, working in concert to keep other tributes away from the supplies they want. The camera comes back to Katniss; she sprints while she stuffs a sheet of plastic into her sleeve, and I gasp when it becomes clear that she's running _toward_ the melee instead of away from it.

"Oh no…"

"_Fucking stupid_ – " Gale catches himself before he can snarl further obscenities into his little sister's ear, and presses her face into his shoulder so she will miss the worst of the scene.

Katniss dives for a backpack, but so does another boy and just as they both lay hands on it, the tall, dark-haired girl from District 2 readies a dagger in her right hand. Katniss and her opponent are oblivious as they tug on the pack, but the rest of Panem sees it coming - the District 2 girl hones in on them and with a graceful twist hurls the knife.

I fist a hand in Gale's sleeve as Katniss gives the coveted backpack a vicious yank and flings the boy sideways; he spits blood in her face when he catches the knife in his back. The knife Katniss should have taken in the chest. I make a sound almost like a laugh at the elation that washes over me when my friend does not die while Gale lets his head fall back with a deep sigh of relief. Then I taste bile in the back of my mouth.

….

When I open my eyes again Katniss is running full-bore toward the woods, _away_ from the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, when a second knife lodges in her backpack. _Not an altogether bad thing_. Stupid bitch needs all the help she can get. Clearly she's got no more sense than the fucking raccoons I just butchered this morning. A hundred more awful things to call her crackle through my mind, but deep down I know that most of the anger rises from the memory of our final farewell at the Justice Building on Reaping Day. _Get your hands on a bow as soon as you can_, I'd said. _Your best chance_.

She tried to run into the bloodbath. It could have killed her. Should have. She was going to do it. _Because I told her to_.

After a few seconds, they seem to decide that Katniss running through trees is boring even if she is the biggest sensation the Hunger Games has produced in _years_, and they come back to the Cornucopia. God forbid they miss and instant of the bloody battle. I'm actually relieved, because I can't bear to look at her right now.

The fingers in my sleeve tighten, and it doesn't seem to bother me as much as it should. I notice distantly that Madge bows her head and covers her mouth with one hand. Sways a little on her feet. I stand very, very still because I'm trying to judge if I'm going to have to catch her in a moment and it's going to be tricky with my other arm full of Posy. This I _do_ find irritating. _Welcome to the real world, Princess_. I'd love to let her drop right now (it'd do her some good) but her father is the _Mayor_ and he's standing _right over there_….

"Blood bother you?" I ask, probably not as nicely as I should.

Her brows knit, and I see her eyelashes glisten as the hand over her mouth becomes a white-knuckled fist. "No. It's… they just made me happy – " (she hisses _they_ the same way she said _Capitol people_ yesterday, so I assume that's who she's talking about) "_happy_ – that that boy died. _Happy_." She shakes her head, and it dawns on me that she's not spoiled and squeamish; she's _angry_. "And he was _somebody else's Katniss_. It makes me feel like they're _winning_," she snarls quietly through gritted teeth.

I feel upside down. Inside out. Backwards. I'm an opinionated person. It's not often that I'm at a loss for words. For _thoughts_.

"Catnip is okay, right?" Posy squeaks into my shoulder.

"Yeah, Pose." My voice sounds like an echo.

She doesn't believe me – or maybe she does?- and I snap back to the District Twelve Town Square because I struggle to control her squirming to see, but since I don't want to _hurt_ her I lose the battle. Right when a skinny girl with short brown hair and hazel eyes takes a blade across her belly and organs start spilling onto the earth. My sister spirals into hysterics.

I crush her against my chest, try to speak soothingly, consider making a run for it, dismiss the idea because it will get me arrested, try to think of _any_ other option. I can keep her from watching more on the screens, but there's not much I can do about the audio – screams of horror, cries of pain. Even slicing and stabbing and blunt-force trauma have _very_ distinctive sounds. I wish I could get out of here, but I know they won't let me, even with a sobbing four-year-old.

Out of desperation I look to Madge, but her eyes are scanning the crowd. To call her angry now would be an insult. Yes, there is definitely fire in her – not a roaring flame like in Katniss, more like the embers hidden in the ashes of an old campfire, dormant but alive, waiting for tinder. She locks on something and disappears. The only fire I have left is gone. Leaving me alone in the dark. With a terrified child. Fighting monsters that scare me even more than they scare her.

...

_Footnote: As an aside to Howlynn - I read your last review, with your comment about the "L-word" and all, and all I could think was "Ack! How are you in my head? Get out! It's crowded enough in here with just me smacking into things!" I've litterally had that scene planned in detail since I typed "Pretty dress."_ _Kinda creepy ;) _


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note**

**Apologies for the late update. Some unfortunate family circumstances demanded my attention. Also, there is a small piece of narration that is _partially_ lifted from _The Hunger Games_; again, I'm sure you all will recognize it, and again I'm picky about my Ps and Qs :) As always, many thanks for reading!**

"Oh, not again…" my mother breathes as she sidles up next to us.

My temper flares. "What, did you expect me to break her neck?" I snap, even though I know deep down that it's just a general statement of concern, that she doesn't blame me. But I do.

She fixes me with a withering glare and I check my attitude as she tries to pry Posy's fingers from my collar so she can take her from me and hold her herself. My sister relents and clings to our mother, but she doesn't seem to derive any additional comfort from it. I pin Vick against my leg because the last thing I need is a second meltdown while Mom rocks Posy back and forth and sings softly into her ear, which has absolutely no effect on the howling sobs that continue to shake her tiny body. I spare a glance for Rory and Prim; he rests a comforting hand on her shoulder and steps forward to place himself between us so it's harder for her to see the trembling ball of misery in Mom's arms. _Maybe he is smarter around her than I give him credit for._ Mrs. Everdeen seems oblivious to the scene, and for once I'm grateful for the perpetual haze she hides behind.

At least the small disaster at hand means that I'm missing the bloodbath. I'm not usually a "bright-side" kind of person. But right now I'm desperate.

Suddenly someone shoulders roughly past me, and I have to fight the reflex to throw an elbow. It's a good thing I manage not to, because the person who appears there is Madge. With a peacekeeper in tow.

It doesn't do anything for the ire that's burning away at my insides. I look back and forth between her and the uniform – I recognize Darius from the Hob – as I try to put the pieces together. Only a moment ago, we'd almost been allies. _Why is she trying to get us in trouble_? "What the hell is this?" I growl through clenched teeth.

She looks at me as if I'm the stupidest life form that she has ever encountered. "I'm getting her out of here," she says as she points at my mother and sister.

_Here I am, a step behind everyone again_. "What?"

"Gale, none of you are allowed to leave, but he's going to let me…." She says the words as if they pain her, but she doesn't flinch under my stare.

"She's pulling rank on me, Hawthorne," Darius says with a grin. "Official business and all."

Madge at least has the humility to roll her eyes a little in embarrassment at this, which helps take the edge off the anger at the fact that she's allowed to do this while we are not. But it still doesn't quite go away.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" My mother hisses before she shoves me out of the way. "Go with Miss Madge, okay honey? We'll be there soon." She hands Posy over, and then pats Madge's cheek affectionately. "Thank you, dear, you're a lifesaver."

Madge smiles back at her, tells her to find them at the Mayor's home, and then her eyes meet mine for a second before she turns to go; somehow, underneath the bright sky blue, they look profoundly hurt. And for some reason I don't enjoy it nearly as much as I thought I would.

….

Posy calms down a tiny bit once she figures out that we are leaving the square, but only until I'm about two paces away from her family. When she realizes that none of them are coming with us she resumes crying with gusto.

"But I want Ga-a-ale!" she sobs, drawing his name into several extra syllables. I look back over my shoulder just in time to watch his heart break.

I am certain that the only thing that keeps him from coming after us is Vick, who tugs at Gale's sleeve and says something quietly to get his attention. Gale looks down at him and nods slowly with effort, but his tear-rimmed silver eyes never completely leave us. His mother pats him on the shoulder and offers a sad smile.

"He can't come yet, Posy," I say gently, trying to keep my voice even. I'm sure that if I start to cry myself it won't help matters. "But he won't be long. He wouldn't leave you."

"C'mon," says Darius, nudging me toward the edge of the crowd. "Let's get the little lady out of here before people start to ask questions."

I know he could get in trouble for this because there are very strict rules about mandatory events, so I don't question him. I'm still working on not hating myself for using the _I'm the Mayor's daughter _angle because I'd always promised myself I would never do it. But when I'd found Darius – one of the most lenient of all the peacekeepers stationed here in Twelve – and he had wavered on helping me, the thought of poor little Posy and her panicked family made the decision for me. _I can't let everyone with a crying child leave_, he'd said, even though it was clear that he wished he could. So I countered by telling him I'd take her myself. _It's _me_, everyone will think it has something to do with my Dad_….

Once we get to the edge of the square, I set Posy down so she can walk on her own. She is still crying, but it has slowed down enough that it's punctuated by rough hiccups. "Come on," I say with forced cheer as she laces her fingers with mine. "Let's go do something fun." When we round a corner away from the crowd, I thank Darius for indulging me.

"I know it's the Games and all, but it's a bit much for the little kids. I wish they'd make an exception for them," he says, and I'm surprised to hear something so close to treason come from a Peacekeeper's mouth.

"Well, I owe you one," I answer, and it makes me think of Gale again.

"Come to think of it," he says as he thoughtfully taps a finger against grinning lips, "you kind of _do_."

I laugh at him. "Tread carefully, Darius," I warn, but I don't really mean it. For all his posturing, I know he's harmless. "I've got a four-year-old over here that's all ears right now."

Darius snorts as if wounded, but when he speaks there is no ill-will in his tone. Only a note of mischief. "_I_ _always_ tread carefully in the presence of a lady."

….

I watch the rest of the bloodbath, but I don't really see any of it. Like the way a leaf sticks on the surface of a pond without ever going under. The blood, the horror, the screams – none of it sinks in. All I can think about is my distraught, helpless little sister crying for me – not for Mom, or Rory, or Vick, but _me_ – and not being allowed to go with her. But Madge could. I want so much to be angry at her for it, but each time I try, I fall back to something less comfortable. I decide to call it gratitude. It's not an easy thing for me to feel toward the Mayor's daughter, especially because it keeps happening. But I still resent the circumstances that let her go and made me stay. For the first time, I admit that Madge isn't the one I'm angry at. That maybe….

"Is Katniss still okay?" Vick asks hopefully. He's often less stubborn than Posy is, so it hasn't been difficult to keep him from watching the screens. But he's asked the question every two minutes.

"Yep. She's doing great Vick." In truth, they haven't shown her since she ran into the woods, which is good. It means that nothing interesting has happened to her.

"I knew she would," he says matter-of-factly. It makes me smile.

After about an hour of gore, one of the packs of Career tributes manages to hack their competition to pieces, and they start to inventory their supplies. I'm surprised to see Peeta Mellark among them. When it becomes clear that they are choosing to cooperate for the time being (rather than turn on each other) Claudius Templesmith announces that the bloodbath is over. Peacekeepers start making rounds to dismiss the crowd, and I look around for a convenient way out. I know I won't find one, but I'm getting used to this _hope_ concept.

I see a pair of reporters and a cameraman bearing down on us (or Prim, more likely) and hope that the kids remember what I coached them to say if they are asked any questions. Thank God Posy isn't with us. She has the attention span of a hummingbird for things that aren't one of her own ideas. Rory leans in to whisper urgently to Prim; when her eyes flicker back and forth between all of us I know he's telling her to play along. She nods emphatically just before a woman with obnoxious orange hair sweeps in front of her and demands her attention.

"_So_ wonderful to see you again, Primrose," she says with just a little too much sugar. I watch her closely, because something about her tone has my hackles up. "Everyone wants to know what you thought of the beginning of the Hunger Games today."

She tilts the microphone toward Prim's face, and I have to give my brother credit – he doesn't budge. Prim lets her polite smile fade into something more serious, and she looks too old for her years. "It was very exciting – I admit I was a little nervous, too, but it was quite a show."

"Your sister famously scored an eleven in training, and everyone expected more of a show from _her_ at the Cornucopia, but we didn't _see_ much of Katniss today, did we? What's _your_ take on that?"

There is an awkward pause as Prim's wide eyes look a little wet, Rory's spine stiffens, and a line forms between Mrs. Everdeen's eyebrows as she wakes up a bit more. Prim's lips part but she hesitates another moment. My brother takes a breath like he's going to intervene. Because I seriously doubt that the result could be pretty, I slide up behind him and knot one hand in the back of his shirt to make my point. _Shut it before you even open it_. Besides, if someone is going to tear the Capitol bitch apart for calling Katniss Everdeen a coward, it's going to be _me_.

"She's smart, that's why. It's called _strategy_," I say flatly.

The reporter forgets Prim for a moment as she looks me up and down once, twice. Her smile melts into something that is less mean but turns my stomach.

"And _who_ are _you?_" she asks suggestively.

This is not the first time a woman has used this tone of voice with me, but it _is_ the first time it's made me regret eating breakfast. As much as I feel nauseated, I manage to continue scowling at her. "Katniss is my cousin," I say.

"Oh, I _see_." She turns fully toward me now, shifts her weight, cocks a hip. When she speaks again, her tone has lost the patronizing note that she used with Prim and now sounds interested, which is almost worse because she seems to have entirely missed the hostility radiating from my every pore. "You're saying this is her strategy."

"She's nobody's fool," I shoot back, even though I'm not entirely confident on that. _She did, after all, almost get herself killed. At my recommendation. _But for now, I force the thought away. That isn't what she needs at the moment. "Odds were against her at the Cornucopia. Odds were better in the woods. _May the odds be ever in your favor_, that's what you always say, right? You'll get your show, but it'll be on _her_ time." And I turn abruptly and drag Rory along before my mouth gets any further ahead of me.

….

Once I finally manage to shoo Darius away, it occurs to me that I have absolutely no idea what to do with a four-year-old girl. I have no siblings, no cousins, no experience to speak of. When I try to think of what _I_ wanted to do when I was four, I draw a blank. Lucky for me, Posy is a pretty strong personality and has absolutely no problem telling me how we are going to spend our time until her family comes to retrieve her. When she sees the rows of daylilies in the front yard, she asks immediately to pick some and to see the rest of the flower garden. I help her choose three yellow and four pink lily blooms (the extra pink one I tie into her ponytail at her request), and walk her around to the back yard to show her a patch of posies. She squeals in delight, so of course I let her take some of them also, and one naturally joins the lily in her hair because her name _is_ Posy, after all. The daisies amaze her because they are bigger than the ones she says she picks in the meadow and more like the ones that Gale sometimes brings her from the forest and she has never seen so many in one place and she _has_ to have some of those, too, to make a necklace. I decide she's too cute for me to tell her no, I couldn't get a word in edgewise to do it even if I wanted to, and the activity is keeping the crying at bay. It's been a while since I've given Mr. Aarons a headache anyway.

She wants to sit on the front porch so she can watch for her family, and once we are settled there she decides that she'd rather _I_ construct the daisy necklace. It's been a _very_ long time since I've done it, and she has little patience for my ugly knots at first; once I get the hang of it she insists that I remake the first few, and proceeds to tell me how I'm doing it wrong. After several attempts fail to meet her standards, I suggest she do it herself to show me and to trick her into finishing the project on her own.

"Like this," she says as her tiny fingers twist a stem into a loop, which she knots with surprising dexterity to the next blossom in the chain.

"Oh, okay.…"

"I'll show you another one." She repeats the motions, and it's clear the first one was no fluke; for a preschooler, she's remarkably good at this.

"Wow. That's really good, Posy!"

"Here," she says, holding the strand of flowers up in my face close enough to make my eyes cross. "You do it now."

_So much for that_. I'm clearly in over my head. I can finesse a Capitol reporter into divulging the secret plans for this year's arena, but I can't manipulate a toddler into completing her _own_ flower necklace. Go figure.

Posy twirls in circles with her lily bouquet (with frequent pauses to evaluate my work) while I finish her daisy chain. It takes me a long time to finish, but once it is complete, I get her to hold still long enough to loop it around her neck. She looks down at it and smiles broadly, elated, and seems to forget all the little mistakes I made. "It's perfect!" she squeaks, and throws her arms around me so hard it crushes the flowers and nearly knocks me over. "Thank you!" I immediately forgive her exacting criticism.

I laugh at her when she starts to spin in circles again, but she stops mid-pivot at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Hey, chickadee." Gale trots down the sidewalk, his mother and brothers close behind.

"Gale!" Posy sprints at him and flings herself through the air; he catches her with such ease that it is clear that this is a familiar ritual. I envy them this moment as he squeezes her tightly, and asks her if she behaved herself.

"Yes!" she says as she leans back a little, as if slightly insulted by the question. "Look what Miss Madge made for me." She waves a few links of her necklace at him.

"That was awfully nice of her." Deep down I know he'd rather not have to say that, but he does it so convincingly I almost believe he means it.

"These are for Mom," she chirps, waving her now-battered fistful of lilies.

"Well, go give 'em to her, then!" He plops her on the ground and she darts to Hazelle, who mouths a heartfelt _thank you_ to me before scooping up her daughter.

I get up from my seat on the porch step when Gale turns to me, an arc of daisy pollen smeared into his shirt and still smiling faintly. "Katniss?" I ask hesitantly as I walk toward him. I almost don't want to hear the answer to the question, but I can't stand not to.

"No news is good news," he says, and I breathe easily again. I hadn't quite realized I was holding my breath. Then he turns suddenly serious. "She okay?"

"She was fine," I say, and I start to laugh. "Almost didn't want to give her back."

"Hey Mom," he says over his shoulder, "quick, she said she'll keep her!"

Hazelle frowns and smiles at the same time, then looks to me. "_That's_ the one I'd rather you keep," she says, pointing at Gale. "Taking years off my life, I swear it." I wonder if she knows how willing I'd be to do her the favor as she herds her children back down the sidewalk to go home.

"I walked away before I got in trouble," he calls after her, defensive. I look at him quizzically, and he explains simply, "Gave the media team hell. Politely."

I start to laugh again. "I wish I could have seen that."

He smiles – _really_ smiles - at the fact that I approve, and it's beautiful. I completely lose my place in our conversation. The smile fades some, and he pins me again with that hard stare, but for once there is no malice in it. "Thank you, for today. I don't know if I can pay this one back."

I shrug. "There's nothing that needs repaid."

I get that half-smile again and a faint nod before he goes. It'll be another good night of crying. I feel despicably selfish about it, with Katniss still fighting for her life, but I know it will happen anyway. A running tab of debt. It's the closest we'll get to love.

...

_Another aside to Howlynn: ! ? ! ? But I guess the cliffhanger last chapter wasn't really all that mysterious... ;)_


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note**

**I've been doing a lot of apologizing lately, and I have to do it once more: sorry for the long time between updates again, and for those of you to whom it matters (thank you as always for your support) the next few will probably be slow as well. **** Life has been unfortunately demanding. I hope this chapter isn't too awful to muddle through; more action is coming, I promise, but there were some things here that needed to be said.**

The next few days are hard. The start of the Hunger Games has my mother back in bed nearly full-time again. I can't decide if I am sad or angry; part of me aches for her and the loss she feels anew, and the other part cannot understand why she doesn't fight harder. Each morning when I wake and give her medicine and persuade her to eat, I remind myself that she and others have always told me that I favor my Aunt Maysilee. That I am fundamentally different form my mother. That it is unfair to expect her to handle pain the same way that I do. Then, after I finish and have time to notice how much I miss her again, I can't help but think that she's a Donner, too, and her sister's twin on top of that. _Surely she must have some of that fight in her, at least a little_…. By the time I get to school, I take those thoughts and fold them up and lock them away because it isn't going to change. Though I'll always love her, each year that I have to miss her makes it harder not to feel abandoned. Betrayed. Not _worth_ the fight.

I feel more alone than I ever have at school, which is honestly surprising since I hadn't thought it possible. It's not so much that no one speaks to me or seems to particularly care if I show up, because this in itself is as it always was. It's that I've placed myself in harm's way – literally endangered my life – for all the people here that hate me for having a life that they cannot. And I'm doing it _because_ they can't have the life that I do. It gets my head going in circles so small and fast that I'm dizzy even sitting down. In fact, I fail a history exam so spectacularly one morning that the next day my teacher keeps me after class to discuss it because she was concerned that it was so unlike my usual performance. Since I can't tell her that history class is a sham and that I'm working with a group of treasonous rebels who want to make sure future students won't have to be subjected to such ridiculous propaganda, I lie that my sick mother kept me up the whole night before the test. When I accept her gracious offer to retake it, I seriously consider failing it again on purpose. I decide that this might be unwise in many ways, so in the end I regurgitate the answers that are expected of me and feel like I've sold a little part of my soul. _Stay focused on the big picture_, I tell myself, _choose your battles carefully and you can win the war_.

I see Gale from time to time in the hallways between classes or outside waiting to collect his brothers after school, and I had hoped to get a another friendly smile or even _hello_ once or twice. But I get nothing from him. Even when he happens to look my way, he looks through me. At first I thought him distracted, with the Games finally begun and two families to feed, but it became clear that he has no trouble acknowledging anyone else. He talks and laughs with his friend Bristel, flirts back with the pretty Seam girls that bat their eyes at him, even carries on civil conversations with a few of the town boys whom he knows from trading with their parents. But not me; no, I don't even rate that familiar scowl of contempt. Those few, delicate bonds of friendship that I'd thought we had established were apparently a figment of my lonely imagination, an illusion fabricated by a wishful heart. But the falling in love – _that_ was real, and that's the worst part.

I go home to a cacophony of disappointments. Now that the Games are ongoing, there is little for me to do to help the cause – most of that will be done by contacts in the Capitol now, where they are closer to the source. To keep me busy, my father (when he's able to actually be there) gives me newspapers from which to glean bits of information and the occasional encrypted message. I learn which reporters' articles to look for in each district publication, and how to decipher their codes. I appreciate the activity, but the gnawing sense of frustration at not doing some concrete kind of good never leaves me. When the media team is around, I find their presence to be a supreme irritation. It does not help when Tangerine says that she cannot _believe_ that I never mentioned Katniss' handsome, feisty cousin before. I act nonchalant as I shrug in response and tell her that I didn't think much of it because he wasn't very friendly anyway (truth). I hope that the comment will cause her to drop the subject, but she just laughs and says something about enjoying a challenge; I try not to listen too carefully because my skin is already crawling. For some inexplicable reason, every time Rose cooks dinner she puts lima beans in it. I never really had an opinion about them one way or the other, but since I've had to share my living space with Marcus I've felt compelled to pick them out of my food. A minor inconvenience, I admit, but on top of everything else it grates down to my bones. Mom is still in bed, so I bring her dinner and do my best to convince her to eat. It's like breakfast all over again, but it gets me away from everyone else for a while. I hope that she'll rebound sooner than usual, like she did after this year's Reaping, because I'm starting to worry that I'm snubbing the Everdeens.

Throughout the evening, in between all of this, I watch the Games because they are on the television non-stop and our Capitol guests can't stand to miss a minute of it. It's a slow, nagging kind of horrible because despite the fact that Katniss is physically unharmed she has yet to find water and the clock is ticking; without it, it won't matter if the other tributes find her. It's awful to watch her wander, suffer, eventually struggle. By the end of the second day, I can't understand why Haymitch hasn't at least sent her _something_ with the sponsor money she's undoubtedly been given. A look at my map gives a likely explanation; based on the tracker positions given on television, which are shown on a plain circular diagram to indicate only distance and direction from the Cornucopia, she is getting close to a small pond. No sense in wasting precious resources on something she ought to be able to find on her own. He must have noticed this before _I_ put the pieces together – I just hope he doesn't wait until it's too late if she ends up needing his help after all. When she does finally find it, I'm pleased to find that my map is in fact accurate and I talk myself into believing that Haymitch was being shrewd and not negligent.

I spend far less time on my homework than I ought, but I figure if I've got a good enough excuse that it gets me a chance to retake an exam then I might as well get as much mileage from it as I can. I feel guilty that I can take a shower, which completely ruins the feel of the warm water. It makes me think of blood. I consider sleeping on the floor to make up for the shower, but just sitting on the edge of my plush mattress forces me to admit that I'm unwilling to give it up. While I lay there in a pile of soft blankets I think of Katniss tying herself into a tree and decide yet again that I'm a Horrible Person.

I know what it is; the sense of uselessness is killing me, and I'm no good at waiting. I think of the promise I made myself a few days ago. To fight. To count my blessings. To make myself useful. I have to admit, I don't feel great but I feel better than I did _before_ I made the promise. It's just more exhausting to be angry than I expected.

….

Posy does pretty well, all things considered. She doesn't exactly have nightmares, but she sleeps fitfully. Still, it's far better than I could have hoped. Because of it, I'm further in debt to Madge Undersee than I could have imagined. It makes going to school difficult; it seems that she's everywhere I look, and I find it embarrassing that I haven't figured a way to settle up. I don't know if I ever will. And if there's something I like less than owing someone, it's being embarrassed by it. So for now, I avoid her entirely, and try to keep my sister away from the television.

Posy wants to see our friend, but I don't want her to see the kinds of things that upset her so badly before. As the days stretch on, I'm not sure I even want her to watch Katniss. I can't stand to see her wander through the woods alone in the arena. Though I'm relieved to see that the environment will play into her favor, that it is something so similar to the one she knows here, it's just a little too close to home. I can't help but wonder if I had been there with her, like I would have been in our forest, she might have found that pond sooner, and been less weakened and vulnerable.

I can't help but wonder if I should have volunteered.

It's not the first time the thought has occurred to me. But seeing her struggle on her own has turned the little whisper in the back of my mind into a roaring accusation. It's ridiculous to give it any credence, to even _think_ it might have been an option to go with her. It had always been an unspoken but unbreakable promise between us; if anything happened to one of us the other would take care of the family left behind. She'd have hated me if I volunteered and left her sister stranded. I'd have likely been her first kill in the arena. Still, guilt is a stubborn thing. To make it worse, I know even the guilt would annoy her. So I try to go back to life like it was before Reaping Day, and I think I do a fair job of faking it. Even if there is a Katniss-shaped hole in it. And the Games are on television every night until the power goes out. And the only person there to help her is a clueless, sappy Townie kid who probably couldn't find water if he looked up in a rain storm.

For someone who's supposed to be in love with Katniss, Peeta Mellark doesn't seem especially concerned with helping her survive. He sticks with his pack of Career tributes, even suffers a few injuries (of them, I have to say the black eye is my personal favorite) to protect their supplies. I'll give him credit, he bandages himself up on his own and goes about his business with a lot less whining than I expect, but I still can't bring myself to give him any real respect. Hanging with the careers after all the hullabaloo about the star-crossed lovers from district Twelve – it just doesn't ring true.

To continue our show of support, we watch the Games each night with the Everdeens. Seeing Prim become increasingly distraught over watching her sister die of thirst softens me a little, and it becomes a bit easier to speak with her again. The relief we all feel when Katniss finally finds a pond makes it easier still. Her mother feeds us with whatever game I brought in the morning, which I take as a good sign; it would seem that she's not quite ready to let her youngest daughter starve to death just yet, and that means it's one less thing for me to manage. When the electricity dies, we have a convenient cue to leave. It may be easier to speak to Prim, but it still isn't _easy_.

The morning of the fourth day, I bring a turkey to the Everdeens'. I don't usually keep them because they typically fetch such a good price in town, but things are looking up for Katniss since she found water and it almost feels like it ought to be some sort of special occasion. The Girl on Fire can win now that she has what she needs. I even bring a bagful of wild onions and arrowhead roots to go with it, blackberries for after, and the pair of squirrels I caught should trade for a few loaves of real bread from the baker. He's been generous with bartering of late, since I've been showing up alone because my hunting partner is trapped in the arena like his son. I almost feel bad about practically robbing him blind. _Almost_, but not quite.

When Prim opens the door for me, glistening stripes stretch from her red eyes down over flushed cheeks, her lips twist uncomfortably as she tries to hold in a pained sound; because I so badly don't want to believe it, it takes me a full second or two to understand that she is crying. Everything comes crashing down, and the hope that I had been clinging to does nothing for it. In fact, it only makes for a longer, harder fall.

She wrings out the words like water from a dish towel. "She's hurt bad, Gale."

I pull her into me as she starts to sob because I don't know what else to do. It's like reliving Reaping Day again. I give her a moment to cry herself out before I ask her to try to speak again. "What happened?"

Prim pushes back from me a little, sniffs loudly, rubs tears from her eyes. "Fire," she says, and her voice cracks on the word. "They set the arena on fire."

I push her back into the house and drop my bag of game on the floor as I ask, "She's alive, though?"

"Yes, but…." she indicates the television timidly. I move around her to see the screen, and see Katniss staggering through sparse woods, clouds of smoke billowing around her. She is limping badly, her jacket is scorched, and the coughs that wrack her thin frame nearly bring her to her knees.

I can't stand to watch. I can't stand not to.

I sit numbly with Prim on the edge of her worn, lumpy couch while she tells me about what she saw this morning. She'd turned on the television to check on her sister, expecting to see her alive and relatively unharmed just like the last few days. Instead, she tuned in just in time to watch Katniss running for her life from airborne fireballs. She took one to a leg, and she is badly burned. She's lucky to be alive. But it's hard to say just yet how long that will last.

We watch until she stumbles upon a small, clear pool and eases her red, blistered leg into the water. When Katniss seems to be settled and none of the other tributes appear to be on her trail, I reassure Prim that her sister will be fine (I do such a good job I almost believe myself) and get her to school (the distraction will do us both some good). I suppose her mother is still in bed, miserable, and it infuriates me that though she is not letting her daughter starve, she isn't doing much to comfort her in the wake of this horror. I always thought I understood why Katniss did not get along with her mother, but seeing it firsthand is a completely different animal. I watch Prim out of the corner of my eye as we walk and she makes an effort at calming herself down; for the first time I'm truly grateful that she is not the one in the Games. I still hate the fact that Katniss is there instead, but Prim would _never_ have made it. And that would have _destroyed_ Katniss.

We arrive at school over an hour late. I am not especially concerned about it, but Prim is worried that she'll get in trouble. When we walk into the office to check in, the secretary doesn't help.

"You are aware that class started ninety minutes ago?" she says condescendingly. There are a _lot_ of kids in this school, since it's the only one in the district, and it is clear that she doesn't know who we are and why we might be behind schedule. But that doesn't give her the right to be nasty. Well, maybe to _me_, as I'm sure I've done something during my time here to have earned it, but not to Prim.

I see Prim's eyes water, her lips tremble as she tries to prepare an answer, and the numbness in me burns away as my temper flares.

"Go on to class, Prim," I say, "you won't get in trouble. I'll take care of it."

She looks from me to the secretary (whom I silence with my fiercest glare when she opens her mouth to assure Katniss' sister that she _will_ in fact get in trouble) and hustles out the door.

"Tardiness requires a write-up and detention for _both_ of you. Those are the rules," snaps the woman behind the counter when the door clicks shut.

I lean forward and brace both arms against her desk so she can better appreciate that I am _very_ capable of getting my way. "You can do whatever you need to do for me," I say calmly. It's not like I'd bother showing up for detention anyway. "In fact, if you'd like to tack on extra punishment for threatening you, go right ahead because I'm going to do it right now. _Primrose Everdeen_ – " the woman flinches a little at the name as the recognition hits her – "has never caused any trouble a single day in her life and she woke up this morning to her sister nearly _burning _to death. On live television. It's an _astounding_ testament to her character that she is here at _all_ today." I give this a moment to sink in, even if it is an exaggeration; Prim was upset enough that I think if I hadn't been there she'd still be crying in her living room. "So if you so much as even _record_ that she was tardy today I will string you up in the foyer out there like a goose headed for the pot. Clear?"

She blinks back guilty tears as she tries to apologize. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize she was –"

"Well, now you do," I say as I stand back up and turn to leave.

"I didn't see this morning – is she alright?" she asks, and now she sounds genuinely concerned.

"Watch the fucking highlights at lunch," I snarl before I slam the door behind me. Doubtless it'll be the headline event. The Capitol's _got_ to be loving this new version of the defiant _Girl on Fire_. And I'm scared to death.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:**

**This was originally going to be two chapters, but then I realized that it meant I'd be giving you two boring chapters in a row, so I decided to keep it all as a single very long one. Thanks again for reading. Please let me know what you think. **

I realize halfway through the afternoon that I completely forgot about the squirrels I planned on taking to the Baker before going to school. They are still sitting in the same bag with the turkey on the Everdeens' living room floor. I doubt they've even been moved yet, and probably won't be until Prim gets home and rouses her mother to cook dinner. Instead of reading the assigned pages from my mining textbook, I use my class time to estimate how long it will take me to go all the way back to the Seam to get them, then walk all the way back to town to trade them, then all the way back home again. Then I try to figure if I can even _get_ back to town before the bakery closes, and if I can't, whether the bread would be worth knocking on the Baker's back door after business hours because it might be answered by his awful wife. Not all costs are monetary. I wonder sometimes why she's such a witch; she has a home in town, food on the table, enough money that her children don't have to register for Tesserae. Not that that did her any good in the end, I guess, but she was a bitch _before_ her son was sent to the Capitol. If anybody has the right to be a shrew, it's _my_ mother. And she isn't. So I can't imagine what kind of excuse the Mellark woman has.

The boys are on edge from what they saw of Katniss at lunchtime, but on opposite ends of the spectrum. Vick is wound up more than usual after school; when Rory dashes by to catch up to Prim, it is without his usual verve. I gather that Vick is anxious to see what is going on in the arena from the dozens of questions he lobs at me, to make sure that she is still all right. Despite the confident front he puts on for Prim, I can tell that Rory is uneasy. It could have been Prim sitting in that spring with the terrible burns, and next year it could be _him_.

I have to stop by Prim's house to retrieve my squirrels anyway, so I take the opportunity to tag along and irritate my brother by invading his conversation with the girl of his dreams. If he's annoyed at me, then he's not worried about turning twelve in a few weeks, about Prim having five more birthdays before she's ineligible for the Hunger Games, about Katniss never seeing seventeen. And Vick – well, Vick is almost as bad as Posy when it comes to attention spans, and annoying Rory is his favorite sport.

I enthusiastically ask Prim to show the boys her goat when she lets me into the house. Vick is excited because he still thinks a goat is a pretty interesting novelty, and Prim and Rory play along with tight smiles because they both know it's a ploy to keep all of them away from the television for a few minutes in case there's something on the air that they would rather not see. I watch the broadcast while I collect my bag and leave the turkey and vegetables in the kitchen. When I see that there are still two _12_ icons on the tracker map, I know Katniss is still alive. It takes a little while for them to actually show her onscreen, but eventually they cut to a few seconds of her dozing by the little pool, in no worse condition than she had been this morning. It is a weird feeling to be _happy_ to see her burned and half-covered in ash. It makes me think of Madge and her messy ponytail and ferocious glare on the day of the bloodbath, and that feeling is stranger still.

After I announce that Katniss is still on her way to becoming Victor (I do my best to put a positive spin on the situation) I decide on the spur of the moment to bring my brothers with me to town. It would be wise to go home first, to warn my mother that we'll be gone for a while so she won't worry, which means Posy will end up tagging along, too. This is going to take _forever_. But it's an hour or two not spent watching children die.

….

My mother is actually awake and somewhat alert when I walk into her room, so I take my time enjoying breakfast with her for a change in order to keep her from wandering in on the media team watching the Games before they leave for the day. Barring any major mishaps, they will finish whatever worthless project they've been assigned today, pack their bags after dinner tonight, and take the train back to the Capitol tomorrow. I am so elated at the prospect that I don't even mind that another team will be sent to us when Katniss makes it to the final eight in the arena – and I'm confident that she will.

Until I get to school. I catch wisps of whispers from two girls who have lockers near mine - Katniss Everdeen may not make it? It isn't long before the rumors sweep through the school like a flash flood, and with all the swirling eddies of gossip and speculation it's impossible to tell truth from lies.

At lunchtime, I finally get to see the highlights (if you can call them that) from the Games this morning, and I begin to understand why there was so much disparity among everyone's stories; at the start, it's difficult to see anything but the wall of fire bearing down on Katniss. When she disappears from view, my heart stops beating, and when she reemerges on fire it doesn't quite start again. After they show her badly burned leg, I lose my appetite altogether. At long last, she is shown resting, alive but weak and in pain, and I'm angrier than I've ever been. As horrible as it is that twenty-four children – _children_ – are dropped in the arena and made to fight to the death, this Gamemaker-controlled disaster seems even _more_ unfair. It's like the Capitol is cheating, choosing their victors, trying to eliminate the ones they would rather not win.

_But then, isn't that what _we're_ doing_? Fixing the Games? I begin to feel another fury under what I feel for Katniss' plight, something deeper, duller, and tinged with apprehension. We need both of our tributes alive to turn the tide, and the Capitol – not another tribute fighting for survival, the _Capitol_ – tried to kill one of them. With a play on the nickname that we all hoped would inspire a nation. _Does that mean they know_?

Prim must be beside herself with this turn of events. Since my mother was doing better this morning and I won't likely have an opportunity to talk to my father alone until late tonight, I decide that now would be a good time to take her up on her invitation from the day of the bloodbath. Circumstances so far had prevented me from getting away from home and I worried that she might begin to think I was a snob after all. Today I could use the change of scenery and I'm certain that Prim could use the company.

When I get home I raid the pantry and throw together a basket of food to share with Prim and her mother; though I have little experience with being invited to someone else's home it seems rude to show up empty handed. I beg Rose to cover for me while I'm gone.

"Tell everybody I'm running errands or something," I say. "I just don't want Claudia to know I'm at the Everdeens' and get the idea to come looking for one last interview."

"All right," she says with a teasing smile, "but you owe me for leaving me here with them alone."

"Fair enough. Thanks, Rosie." I'll have to come up with something good. _I_ sure as hell wouldn't want to be left here with them either. I know from experience.

I realize halfway to the Seam that I'm wringing my fingers furiously in the hem of my skirt. I am nervous about my visit; even though I think of Katniss as my friend, we never spent time together outside of school, and even _in_ school we didn't do a lot of talking. I'm not sure I know how to actually socialize with people since I never really _do_ it.

Prim dispels my anxiety the moment she opens her door. She smiles so brightly and throws her arms around me with such joy that I'm almost convinced we've been friends for years. "I'm so glad you're here!" she gushes as she pulls me inside. "I didn't know if you'd be able to with everything going on and all…." As she chatters on I relax a bit because it becomes clear that I won't have to be the one to initiate conversation. She thanks me profusely as she helps me unpack my basket of bread and cheese and apples, and asks me if I can stay a while to share everything for dinner.

"I don't see why not," I say. "Whatever you're cooking smells wonderful."

"Gale brought us a turkey this morning," she explains. "I think he was hoping today would be a happier occasion."

"I didn't even know what had happened this morning until I got to school," I tell her. "Mom keeps me pretty busy until I have to leave the house so-"

"Is she doing okay?" she asks eyes wide with genuine concern.

Surprised, I stutter when I answer her. "Uh – yes, better now."

"I'm sorry," she says immediately, "I don't mean to pry."

"No, no, it's fine," I say with a smile. "It's just that most people don't bother to ask." It is widely known that I have a sickly mother, and it seems to be equally widely accepted that because she is the wife of a public official her condition merits no concern whatsoever. _No wonder Katniss is so fond of her sister, she truly is a sweetheart_.

"My mom said they used to be friends a long time ago," she says. "I know she wonders how she's doing sometimes."

I think of the things I've heard about Katniss' mother. How others around town said she gave up her merchant lifestyle to go live in the Seam, and then how my mother kept the things they couldn't _believe_ Mrs. Everdeen left behind and still did not fare much better. I think of my mother and her sister, Mrs. Everdeen and her husband, Peeta and his father, Katniss and Prim; it's all about who you love, in the end, and how they are taken from you.

"She has good days and bad days," I say, "Looks like the good ones might start outnumbering the bad ones soon."

"That's good," Prim says as she lifts the lid on a simmering pot to check the bird. The smell of it makes my mouth water, and I begin to regret skipping lunch. I am immediately ashamed of myself for feeling hungry. _How many meals has Prim skipped in her lifetime, and not by her own choice?_ "Shouldn't take too much longer. Have they shown her on the television yet?"

"Not that I've seen." I've been trying to keep one eye on the Games during our conversation (it hasn't been difficult, since the Everdeens' home is so small the kitchen and living room are practically one and the same), looking for any bit of news about Katniss.

"Gale says that's a good thing," she says as she beckons for me to sit with her on an uncomfortable-looking couch.

"He's right. Most interesting things that happen in the arena are not good."

At long last the camera cuts to a few seconds of the Girl on Fire, sitting with her leg soaking in a small pool. Prim wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. "She needs to get up," she says with a touch of frustration. "Water is good at first but if they won't send her medicine, she needs to find a beehive."

"A beehive?"

She nods. "For honey."

"Honey?"

She nods again. "For the burn."

I look at her quizzically. "Really?"

I get an enthusiastic exposition on the art of burn treatment, punctuated by occasional irritation at the fact that Katniss was never very inclined to help with patients (and therefore acquired only limited bits of otherwise rather valuable information). Her mother emerges from what I suppose is a bedroom, looking melancholy but alert, and nods politely at me in a quiet greeting. She listens to Prim for a moment, glances at the television, and nods again in agreement before busying herself in the kitchen. For a twelve-year-old, Prim is remarkably knowledgeable and utterly confident. I have no doubt that if she were in the arena with her sister, Katniss would be back on her feet already. The girl could be a doctor someday. If she weren't from District Twelve, didn't live in the Seam, had a chance to put her smarts to use. I feel my resolve harden a little more.

We sit and watch nervously for a while as the broadcast focuses on the group of career tributes, who want to find the girl who outscored them in training. When they bring it up as they make plans, Peeta distracts them. For now, they take renewed interest in the project started by the boy from District 3. Whatever he's been doing with the buried wires around their mountain of supplies must be pretty impressive, because he doesn't really look like the type the careers would allow to survive this long. The camera cuts to a slight, red-haired girl watching the group intensely from the cover of a dense thicket at the tree line; she traces a vague outline in midair with one finger as if trying to piece together what they are doing, her mouth turned upward in a faint, knowing smile. I can only wonder at what she's figured out, and it makes me consider what my odds would have been in the arena. I can hear Claudius Templesmith's voice now: _Margaret Undersee, the first and only tribute to ever be awarded a training score of zero in the history of the Hunger Games_.

The orange light pouring through the small windows tells us that the sun is on its way to setting, and Prim twists in her seat to look at the clock on the kitchen wall behind her. "They said they were going to be late, but I hope it's not too much longer. I'm getting hungry."

I'm surprised that she is expecting company, and immediately wonder where they are going to go because three of us fill their small home on our own. I start to ask who will be joining us when someone knocks on the door as if on perfect cue.

"Speak of the devil," she says with a laugh as she rises to answer it. "I should have said that sooner!" When she opens the door, I realize I should have known all along. And that I had good reason to be nervous after all.

….

"Come in, come in!" Prim says as she points to the kitchen. "Supper's ready!"

"I'm sorry it took us so long," I say, pushing Vick and Rory ahead of me in to the house. "Help her get plates out, guys. And all for naught, it turns out. Bakery was closed," I set Posy down so she can join her brothers, "and they weren't home, so no bread-"

Posy interrupts as if I don't exist at all. "Can I go pet Lady?" Prim nods to give permission, and my sister happily skips away.

"No bread," I continue as I follow Prim through the door, "so guess what's for breakf- what the hell are you doing here?"

A girl sits in the living room. An unexpected girl. A pretty girl with blond hair and a shy smile. She wilts when I speak, though, and the smile wanes as her eyes fall away from me. Everyone else is looking at me now, and I realize that I sounded more harsh than surprised. But they don't understand how hard I've tried to not to have to look at her, to think of her the last few days. How I've been failing. And the guilt. Oh, the guilt….

"I invited her," says Prim carefully. "Figured that would be okay."

I shrug. "Your roost, your rules," I say. _Good job, Hawthorne. That fixed it_. I'm not overly worried about making Madge feel better, but I don't want Prim and everyone else to be uncomfortable. Which is exactly what I've done. "Didn't expect anyone else, is all." _There. Good enough_.

Prim decides to change the subject. "Is your mom coming, too?" she asks as she moves to the kitchen and helps Vick, who is still just a little too short to get a ladle out of the pot of turkey without making a mess.

"Later," I tell her while I debate whether I ought to say something to Madge. "She still had a lot of work to finish." A good thing in more ways than one, I have to say. If she'd been here to witness my behavior a few seconds ago, she might have actually smacked me. Hard. In front of everyone.

"Don't worry about the bread, Gale," Rory says with a grin, "She's already got plenty to share."

"Oh?" I'm surprised when he holds up a chunk of soft brown bread for me to see, then tears it in half to give part of it to Vick.

Prim smiles as she fills her own plate. "Madge brought it," she explains, and though her voice is nothing but grateful and polite she says the words as if she is making a very fine point.

_Great. Bailed out by Madge Undersee_ again. I'm still not sure how to handle the situation, or why it always seems so difficult when she is involved. Rory has a good head on his shoulders, at least, and has the sense to say "Thank you." It occurs to me after the fact that I ought to have done it myself. I almost know what to say when my sister opens the door and squeals at the sight of her new best friend.

"Miss Madge!" Posy darts to the couch and throws her arms around a startled Madge.

"Posy!" she says as she returns the hug. "If I'd have known you were going to be here I'd have brought you some more flowers!"

That's about the last sentence Madge will be able to get in for a while, because Posy can have a conversation with a brick wall and do just fine; give her an audience that will nod every so often and work in an "uh-huh" here and there, and it's all over. It'll buy me some time to get my bearings again. I pick up a plate, spare a glance for my squirmy sister, and trade it immediately for a bowl. I fill it and another plate, and carry them both to the living room.

"Sit still for a minute, Pose, so you can eat," I say as I round the couch. She must be hungry because she listens on the first try. "No, use both hands, chickadee – better – okay." I extend the other plate to Madge, but she only looks at me timidly as if she expects me to tell her to get her own damn food. To be honest, I'd considered it, but decided a gesture of good will might not be a bad idea. I do owe her, after all. I nod to indicate that yes, I actually mean for her to take it, and when she thanks me the shy smile returns. I hadn't realized how much I missed it.

Because of that I opt to eat at the table with my brothers. When we finish cleaning up the dishes, we bring the kitchen chairs into the living room so we can all have a place to sit while Madge starts teaching Posy how to play a game with a long loop of string. The girls get the couch, Mrs. Everdeen the armchair. Rory places his chair strategically next to Prim, Vick and I across from them. I want to be sure I can snatch up Posy in a hurry if I need to get her away from the television.

We sit and watch the Hunger Games helplessly for a while, like we are keeping watch for Katniss. Not that it does her any real good, of course, but it makes _us_ feel better. The camera cycles through the remaining tributes, lingering only a moment or two on the ones that have nothing interesting to offer. As much as I miss her and want her to come home, I hope we see little of Katniss for as long as possible. A tall, strong, dark-skinned boy starts a small fire at his camp in the wheat field while there is still enough daylight to keep it hidden. I wonder briefly what his story is – he looks like the type that the Careers would have liked to have on their side, but he had kept all the supplies he'd won at the bloodbath and taken off. A little girl, no older than Prim, perches in a tree and nibbles a handful of berries while her wide brown eyes scan the landscape around her warily. The pack of Career tributes, along with Peeta Mellark, hovers over a skinny, pallid boy near their mound of supplies.

"They're still at it," says Madge says as she pauses in her spiderweb game to tie Posy's loose shoelaces.

"I wonder what they're doing," Prim muses.

"I'm pretty sure he's rewiring the mines," I say, "to booby-trap the supplies for them."

"Really?" says Prim, and I suddenly have a half dozen pairs of eyes on me.

Madge asks, "Can they do that?"

"Sure, I guess, if they know how," Rory answers, staring hard at the television as if he could somehow absorb this knowledge from it.

"Not a bad idea, if you think about it. But I wouldn't do it that way," I add critically.

Prim frowns. "Why not?"

"Look how close their stuff is to the explosives. If somebody trips a mine, it'll kill them, sure, but everything else goes with it."

"Oh. You're right," Rory agrees. "That's… stupid."

"Maybe not," Madge offers as she looks up from her game with Posy. "What if he did it on purpose? I mean, most of those careers can use a weapon, but other than Peeta none of them seem very bright -"

I do not feel like listening to Peeta Mellark's redeeming qualities. After making such a show of his crush on Katniss, he abandoned her. Period. "Oh sure, Peeta's a real genius," I cut her off. "That's why he's relying on these idiots instead of finding a way to survive on his own and actually _help_ the love of his life."

Madge looks surprised, as if she cannot understand how I've come to this conclusion. "But… he _is_ helping her-"

"By staying with the mountain of provisions and the Capitol lapdogs," I spit, "while she sits in a pool with an injured leg?"

Her brows knit and that fierce glare from a few days ago returns, except now I'm on the receiving end of it. "By staying with the hounds that want to kill her and _keeping them at bay_," she snaps. "If you'd pay _attention_, you'd see every time they bring her up he distracts them or leads them in circles."

If I'm willing to be honest – and for some reason I'm finding that I _am_, more and more often – I'd have to say she's got me there. I haven't paid much attention to Peeta Mellark. Haven't wanted to. So I'm not very sure about how to refute this point. But I'll be _damned_ if I lose another debate to her.

"You sure about that?" I prod. "Maybe he _is_ trying to find her but he's too incompetent to do it." I put on my most patronizing tone. I'm good at it. I've had a lot of practice. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you don't learn too many survival skills like tracking growing up in town with a cushy job in a bakery."

Her eyes narrow at the barb. A little piece of me feels bad, because of the debt I owe her and the kindness that I really can't deny she's earned of late. But then, I may have missed that shy smile mere moments ago, but ire suits her even better.

"Growing up in town doesn't make somebody an idiot, Gale. It just means their survival skills are _different_ form yours. He might not be able to track Katniss through a forest, but he can manipulate the murderers away from her for a while. Do you honestly think he _believes_ them when they say they want her as an ally?"

"I don't know, but if he doesn't don't you think he would try a little harder to help her? And that aside, do you think it matters at _all_? Because – "

"Gale!" Posy stomps a foot as she stands up and rolls her eyes at me in irritation. _Four going on fourteen, God help me_. "We can't play our game if you're fighting!" Her comical mannerisms cool me down a degree, and the uncomfortable looks on everyone else's faces a few more. I realize with jarring clarity that I had practically forgotten they were here with us. In a weird way, I'm a little disappointed I remembered them; I was really starting to get Madge going.

I pause for a second before I finish my last thought. I can't not say it. "Because only _one_ gets to come home anyway."

Madge's glittering blue eyes flash back at me, and for a second she looks like she might respond. Instead she checks herself and lets her gaze drift carefully back to the sting in her hands, twisted artfully around long, elegant, _unscarred_ fingers. She nods calmly for my sister to take her turn, but her flushed cheeks and clenched jaw give away the fire smoldering just below the surface.

"Are you finished?" Mrs. Everdeen asks quietly.

It's almost like the floor drops out from under my chair. Except it doesn't actually happen, which is unfortunate for me, because the very best thing that _could_ happen would be for the earth to swallow me up right here and now. So I hang my head and try to look as contrite as possible. Because Madge wasn't the only person here who grew up in town. I only hope Mrs. Everdeen understands that I was so harsh because I love her daughter. That thought drops the bottom out of everything all over again, because even while I love her daughter I'm completely enamored with getting a rise out of the girl watching the Games with us. And it's not because I hate her. And of course, because everything can always get worse, this is exactly when my mother decides to knock on the door.

….

I'm glad for the distraction that Gale's mother brings. I need a moment to bite my tongue. He is only protective of Katniss, and doubtless he'd have handled things differently if he had been in the arena instead of Peeta. He is worried for his friend and angry at someone who is unable to help her like he could. So I forgive him. Again.

It's getting old, though.

Hazelle greets everyone warmly – even me, which I am certain irks her eldest son to no end – and I get an opportunity to reflect on how very close I was to telling him he is wrong, that if the pieces continue to fall into place two tributes will be coming home to District Twelve. I can't let that secret go. Because it has to seem that like it happened organically, unplanned, from within the Capitol itself if it's going to work. I don't think Gale is untrustworthy, per se, but I can't risk him letting something like that slip. It hurts though, because I so badly want to tell him, and he so badly needs to know. _She's the only one in the arena with an ally that won't have to turn on her in the end_.

The action picks up unexpectedly on the television, and after a moment we all realize that the Careers are on the hunt and closing in on the Girl on Fire. Everyone holds their breath as we will her to wake up and run for her life. Hazelle coaxes Posy off to the side and asks her to show her the game she had been playing with me, one eye still on the Games on screen. Heavy footsteps finally rouse Katniss and moments before they bear down on her she scrambles to her feet and up a tree. I wince at the thought of what it must feel like on her burned skin, but I suppose it's nothing compared to what she must know they have in store for her.

After a few seconds of shouting and confusion, a boy tries to climb up after her.

"This oughtta be good…." Gale mumbles, and sure enough a bough cracks under the boy's weight, sending him crashing down. I'm surprised that he gets to his feet after a painful-looking landing.

More confusion and a lot of swearing end in a girl attempting to scale the tree as Katniss climbs even higher. When she finds a suitable perch, she struggles awkwardly with something slung across her body for a second or two, and I see it is a bow and a quiver of arrows. I glance at Gale to gauge his reaction; his gray eyes are focused and hard as his mouth forms a silent _No_. These weapons are meant for Katniss. The girl aims an arrow and misses badly; Katniss retrieves it and waves it mockingly at her pursuers, which makes Gale smile.

A little girl appears in a tree next to her, and alerts Katniss to a bees' nest overhead. I'm alarmed for my friend, because they don't look like the kind of bees Prim said her sister needs. Peeta convinces the other tributes to wait until the morning to deal with Katniss, and I (with a smug little smile, I have to admit) look at Gale again only to find is face unreadable. After she tries in vain to cut down the beehive, Katniss is rewarded at last with medicine, and lashes herself to the tree to rest for the night. We wait, breathless, for any further action, but no one – Katniss, Peeta, or the careers – moves, and we decide that the excitement is over for now.

It's getting dark now that we all ready ourselves to go home. Prim invites me to visit again as I retrieve my basket, and I insist she keep the leftovers. Privately I debate whether I should return or not since Gale will likely also be in attendance, and decide that I will if only to make a point. I say my goodbyes, thank the Everdeens' for their hospitality, thank Gale for the turkey (I am certain that my effort at civility has him nearly climbing the walls), and give Posy one last hug. I have one foot out the open door when I hear Hazelle Hawthorne's voice behind me.

"You are _not_ letting her walk all the way home alone in the dark. Go with her."

...

_Footnotes:_

_I meant to notate this when it was mentioned in the last chapter but failed to do it, so here it is: Arrowhead is a real wild food source, and it has many varieties found all across the United States. They grow in swampy, watery areas and are actually rather pretty; they produce a tuberous root that tastes something like a turnip. Arrowhead is the common name for –wait for it - Katniss. _

_Honey is among the best natural treatments for burns. It has even been shown in clinical studies to outperform most pharmaceutical products in healing wounds. Better-known Aloe is useful as well for its soothing properties, but does less for the healing process (besides, it doesn't grow in the geographical area in which District 12 is located, so I would think that Prim and her mother are unlikely to be familiar with it)._

_In case anyone is curious, the "game" Madge and Posy are playing is Cat's Cradle. I chose this particular activity for them because of its simplicity; all it requires is about a yard of string, so it's easy to do in a pinch and children in the Seam probably don't have much in the way of fancy toys. I can actually do it – if you have the time look it up, because it's pretty cool._


	15. Chapter 15

**Authors Note:**

**Thank you all again for reading (you probably getting tired of reading that, but I don't get tired of saying it - I mean it more and more each time). This was very difficult to write. I'm generally very precise with my writing as a rule, but this chapter was especially demanding. I'm still not quite one-hundred-percent satisfied with it, so please let me know what you think. Reviews make me happy! (And help me fix typos).**

_She didn't_…. I frown at my mother because she cannot possibly have said what I think she did. She ignores me, apparently because she doesn't think she was in any way unclear. Madge stops in the doorway and looks back at us, and the expression on her face says she is expecting an argument.

"But –" I begin.

Mom pauses in her conversation with Mrs. Everdeen and raises her eyebrows as if she is surprised that I have anything to say, which immediately shuts me up. She stares me down for a few seconds, and when I remain silent she gives me that _Yeah, that's what I thought_ look that means I chose wisely not to argue. _But it's a clear night, she came all the way here by herself, what would she have done if we hadn't been here?_

I look to Madge again, but she turns from me and steps out the door so I can't see her reaction. Still, there is something sad about the way she does it. I don't expect it to sting the way it does.

"Can I come, too?" Posy asks excitedly.

_Oh, please, please, please…_

"No Posy," Mom says, "you're going home and going to bed. It's getting late." My sister pouts her bottom lip and bats her eyes, but my mother doesn't take the bait. I'm impressed. It usually works on me.

_Shit. _I don't want to be stuck with Madge alone. _Because… because then I might… end up arguing with her again._ Yeah. Mom waves me away impatiently, and I try to think of a good excuse not to do what I'm told. In a weird, uncomfortable way, I don't feel like I'm trying very hard. With a deep breath I start for the door and hope she's started without me. _Oops, sorry mom, she's already gone!_ That would get me in a lot of trouble, but let's face it, it wouldn't be the first time _that's_ happened.

Outside, I find my hopes are dashed to pieces and strangely enough I don't quite find it disappointing. She's still there, but from the looks of it she's having a hard time at the moment. It takes me a second to figure out what's going on because she's twisted around awkwardly and there's a goat involved.

Posy must have left Lady's pen open. And Lady must like Madge's laundry soap. Madge drops her basket and tries in vain to pull the hem of her skirt out of Lady's mouth; the effort only encourages the goat, who chews up ever-larger mouthfuls of fabric. Madge notices that I'm watching the ordeal, looks horrified, and tugs harder at her dress. She makes a timid attempt at pushing Lady's head to one side while she pulls the other way, and when the animal nudges back at her hand she snatches it back ridiculously as if expecting to be mauled.

"Um, some help please?"

I roll my eyes at her. _Good. She'll finally lose it on this one for sure_. "She's a goat, not a rabid wild dog."

"Maybe not," she says as she staggers sideways, "but she's doing a number on my dress – I don't want to accidentally get a finger in there."

I sigh and shake my head and decide that the right thing to do is to rescue the Mayor's daughter from the Everdeens' killer livestock. I'd rather sit on the fence and watch, though, because I've officially decided that this is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my entire life. I wedge myself between girl and goat to take a handful of material, and note with a faint twinge of resentment that though the dress itself is rather simple the fabric feels luxuriously expensive. _Eat up while you can_, I think, _you're never gonna get a meal like _this_ again_. Lady puts up an unexpectedly fair fight, and I nearly knock Madge over as the skirt gives with a loud _rip_. Lady munches away at the shred hanging from her mouth, and I hold up the piece still in my hand. "Do you want this back?"

She looks from her chomped skirt to the slobbery fabric in my hand to the smirk on my face that I don't bother to hide. "Not… really."

I bite back a sarcastic reply because my brothers walk outside. "Rory, tell Prim Lady's out."

Prim comes out to retrieve her goat and gasps when she sees Madge's dress. "She did that?"

Madge gives me a pointed glance. "Gale helped."

Prim tugs at Lady's collar and slaps her flank to get her moving toward her pen around the side of the house. Madge takes a nervous step back as the animal passes by. "I'm so sorry, Madge, I'll-"

Madge waves a hand at her and forces a smile. "Don't worry about it. It was an accident. I'll just… hem it up or something."

I'm certain that my mother is seconds from walking out the door, and the very last thing I need is to be standing here with pieces of the Mayor's daughter's dress in one hand. "Come on," I say, "let's get you home where you don't have to deal with goats and coal dust and-"

"Oh, stop acting like I'm some kind of snob," she hisses as she brushes past me and down the walk.

I follow her, catch up to walk side by side. She drops her head just enough so the stray waves of sun-colored hair that escape her ponytail fall in the way of her face. "What was I supposed to think of the look on your face?" I grumble.

She snaps her head up at this, blue eyes ablaze and beautiful. "_Nobody_ would like a goat eating their clothes, Gale. Especially while they're wearing them." Her strides pick up pace. "What did you expect?"

To be fair, she handled everything – from my temper earlier to Lady's appetite a few minutes ago – with admirable grace. I have to give her that. But I'll never tell her. We turn a corner down a narrow street and I stop when I feel her fingertips touch the sleeve of my shirt.

"What?" I sigh.

Her eyes close for a moment, and when they reopen they look tired. "Look, _I_ knew _exactly_ what to think of the look on _your_ face. I know you don't want to bother with this. I'll just go from here. You can just…" she waves a hand vaguely, "do whatever until it's time for you to get back."

There she goes being nice to me again. Something about the way she speaks makes it clear that she makes the offer for my sake, not because she'd rather not have me come along. _Take her offer, take her offer, take her…. _"No. She's right. I should go." I pause a second, and then the admission spills out before I can stop it. "I don't want anything to happen to you." I want to turn and start walking again, but the way her eyes narrow at me keeps me pinned. There is no suspicion or anger in it; no, it reminds me of the way Katniss had watched with such intensity the first time I showed her how to fashion a wire noose. Like she is trying hard to get her head around something intricately difficult. Comparing the two of them is uncomfortable in a way that I cannot quite define.

"Then why are you being so awful to me?" she asks plainly, more puzzled than accusatory.

I slouch a little and look away because this is not a discussion I want to have with _myself_, much less with _her_. What happened to that old rule? The one that made my life easier by reminding me to keep my mouth shut? Why do I break it, willfully ignore it when Madge is there? _Because I like her better _ferocious….

"After everything I've done you still act like I'm…. Oh…." Something subtle in her face changes, as if she has just solved an impossible puzzle but she doesn't quite believe it. "It's everything I've done, isn't it? You still think you owe me something, don't you?"

"Don't I?" I answer with a snort as I start walking again, though I'm struck by how perceptive she is. I could break my back and work my hands bloody and do every favor she could possibly ask of me for the rest of my _life_ and never fairly pay back what she did for my sister, and that's only one thing on the list.

I hear her shoes scuff the pebbles in the street as she hurries to catch up to me. "I don't expect you to pay those things back, Gale –"

The words tip me back over into anger. "So I'm a charity case now? The last thing I want or need is your _pity_," I snarl. The thought of what I'd rather have from her dances dangerously close to the edge of consciousness, and but it trips up on the fact that I can never have it.

….

I want to strangle the man I love. While I feel one eye twitch involuntarily, I imagine both hands wrapping around his neck and squeezing, squeezing… shaking him violently… squeezing again. For the first time, I start to truly pity him, ironically enough. _Is he really so badly broken that he sees my kindness as condescension?_ I'd been trying to keep my temper in check, but his remark pulls me over the deep end like a spinning top off the edge of the table.

"How dare you put words in my mouth?" I say slowly, icily, with effort. My tone stops him in his tracks again. At this rate we'll never get back to town, but I don't particularly care; no punishment my parents could ever impose on me could ever make it worth _not_ putting Gale Hawthorne in his place and cramming a piece of my mind down his throat. "When did I ever say or act like I felt sorry for you? Everything I've done for you and yours – everything – has been because I admire the fight in you. And the pride, even though it seems to get the better of you most of the time. And the fact that, no matter how badly the odds are stacked against you, you _will_ not lay down and die. You're stubborn and bullheaded and defensive but you're defiant and honorable, too. You risk your life for the people you love and you're still willing to do the right thing for the people you can't stand. Like make sure _I_ get home safe. I _respect_ you too much to pity you, Gale. The things I've done for you aren't the kinds of things you pay back. Friends don't keep a tally." I decide at the last second to leave off an especially nasty _so get over yourself_.

I can hardly believe I have the nerve to speak to him like that, and specifically to call us _friends_ aloud. First because it's a stretch at this point, but more because it feels a little presumptuous, too. It seems to have thrown him a little, though, because he just stares at me blankly for a moment, eyes like hoarfrost on Midsummer Day.

"That's the thing - we aren't friends, are we?" His tone says this is somehow my fault. I want to strangle him all over again. Or cry. But I won't do that. Not in front of him.

"Why aren't we?" I demand. "When _you're_ not picking a fight, we get along!"

He shakes his head ruefully, and his lips quirk into a heartbreaking ghost of a smile. "You don't get it, do you?" he says softly, some of the sharpness worn from his voice. "We're not friends because I'm walking you home to town tonight, and I have to come all the way back here. You have everything to give and I have nothing you need. You come down here all superior like you think if you just pretend that's not how it is, it'll just go away. But that isn't how it works. We're night and day, you and I. The sun rises and sets, whether you acknowledge it or not."

I frown at him, frustrated. "Our _lives_ are night and day, Gale, but _you and I_ – we're not so far apart," I say, pointing back and forth between us_. _I think of the things I'd almost told him earlier, the plans for the Games, and ultimately for the Capitol that put us in this position, and I come dangerously close again. And then the other thing I nearly tell him: _you have everything I need_…. But I'm not ready to make that confession. Might never be. Instead, I hold up part of my skirt. "Besides, I'm standing here covered in goat spit. And I've been a pretty good sport about it. How superior can I be?"

I hope to coax a more genuine smile from him with this, and though it works it is not as well as I hoped. "That's not the superior I meant," he says. "You aren't the only one that counts. Just because it doesn't matter to _you_ doesn't mean it _doesn't matter_." He starts walking again.

"Why not?" I say, relieved that both of us are calming down a little. We're less locking horns and more playing tug-of-war. "Who cares what anybody else thinks?" I shrug.

"Alright," he says, "so what happens if your father answers the door when you get home? What's he gonna think about you being escorted back to town by a rag-tag Seam poacher?"

I give him the first honest answer that springs to mind. "Probably the same thing _you'll_ think when boys start walking Posy home. He'll hate you no matter _where_ you're from."

Gale turns so I can't see his face, and then his shoulders start to shake. Finally he lets his head fall back as he starts to laugh uncontrollably. It's contagious, and I join him. Suddenly, miraculously, we are no longer at odds. "Okay, so that wasn't a very good example," he concedes. And then, just as we reach the edge of the Seam and turn onto the road to town, the power goes out.

There aren't many streetlights here, not like the neighborhood I live in, but there's enough to see where you're going. We seldom lose electricity in town, and if we do, I'm never outdoors at night for it. I am amazed and disoriented by the inkiness of the night, so thick and absolute. It's not like turning the lights off to go to bed at home; somehow the blackness of the wide-open space here is closer, heavier, like it's leaking over my skin and weighing me down. "Damn, it's dark," I say, and I hope that my voice does not betray how irrationally nervous I feel.

"Ha, she swears, too," he teases. "Give your eyes a second to adjust. The moon is bright tonight. You'll be able to see fine."

I'm on the verge of vertigo when things come into focus in grays and blues. The road is tinted lighter than the dirt and grass on either side, the houses a shade between those two. I see a window here and there turn amber as candles and lamps are lit. I turn a slow circle to find that Gale has moved behind me somehow, or maybe I just got myself turned around while trying to get my bearings.

"Better?" he asks.

I feel unsteady again, but for a whole new reason. The low light suits him, makes his eyes look brighter than they do in sunlight, gives the shadows that fall across his features an enticing depth. The cant of his shoulders and spine are less aggressive than before, more at ease. This is not the same predator that I'd seen days ago; no, this is a _snare_. I find my voice. "Yes," I say, and I wonder if he can tell that I'm answering more than one question.

If he can, he doesn't let on. Gale tilts his head in the direction he means for us to go and I follow. I keep my eyes on the road in front of my feet, telling myself that it's to make sure I don't trip on something or step in a hole because the real reason is that I'm not sure I can look at him. At least the darkness hides the deep blush that I can feel creping across my face, but I almost wonder if he can hear my heartbeat in my chest. As hard as it bounds he must. I take a deep breath and let my head tip back as I try to bring myself down again.

I gasp when I open my eyes skyward. In all my nearly seventeen years, I have never been outside town after dark. _Maybe I am a spoiled, sheltered little brat_, I think when I frame my amazement with Gale's perspective. I have to stop moving because I make myself dizzy walking while looking straight up. Distantly I am aware that he stops also and looks at me, and I force myself to meet his gaze for a moment.

"I've never…. You can't see this many stars in town," I explain. I expect a snide comment, but he only lets his eyes drift upward. "I never thought –"

"Too much light," he says flatly. "The bright ones you can still see, but you miss a lot of the rest. Like there, you could probably see most of the Bear" - he points to a spot in the night sky – "but I bet you didn't realize there was so much other stuff around it."

I try to find what he's looking at, but the canvas above us is overwhelming. "No idea." I shake my head. "It's beautiful."

….

I watch her stand there for a minute, maybe two, wondering what to do with the girl that has everything under the sun except the stars. The girl with the goat-eaten dress who gets so angry at talk of pity and hurls not insults but praise at me in the heat of an argument. The girl that wrangles me into laughter when I'm so set on despair. It was so much easier when I could put her in a box and set it on the shelf. When she was just a pretty girl I could never have.

"C'mon. They're not going anywhere," I say. "The later it gets, the less likely I am to survive dropping you off."

This makes her laugh, and she trots behind me until she catches up. We don't speak until we get to her home, but for once the silence between us is not hostile. Under the porch light at her back door the color returns to her complexion, her eyes are no longer washed out by the moon. The hair that falls around her face when she bows her head to look for the key in her basket almost glitters. As I watch her hand twist the key in the lock, I decide that I'll be spending some time in the meadow again tonight. Maybe sleeping there.

She turns to face me when she steps into the doorway, leans against the jamb, looks at me shyly from under veiled eyes. "Thank you for your trouble," she says quietly.

A quick glance confirms that there is no one behind her in the kitchen, so I let my eyes trace the curve of her lip, the angle formed by her neck and shoulder, the graceful line of her collarbone. My fingertips itch to touch her skin, and without thinking I raise one hand.

….

For half a second I think he's going to touch me, _kiss_ me, even, and I tip my head back in a subtle invitation. But Gale just leans against the door frame and shakes his head a little. "No," he says, "thanks for yours."

"No trouble at all," I say with a small smile that I hope conceals the absurd disappointment that flashes through me. _As if he'd ever do that. Not even in my dreams_. So I decide to tease him a little to make light of it. "Well, maybe a _little_."

He smiles just enough to show the point of an eyetooth as he pushes himself off the door jamb. "You're not half bad, Undersee," he says with a mischievous lilt to his voice.

"You're worse than I thought, _Hawthorne_," I deadpan, and he laughs aloud as he walks away.

There's no way I can go to bed wound up so tight, so against my better judgment I carefully lift the cover on the piano. I choose a nocturne; if I'm going to make noise this late, it might as well be soothing, and if I wake someone maybe it'll lull them back to sleep before they complain. Still, I play the keys as softly as I can, so softly that I even skip a few notes. No matter – my mind replaces the missing pieces as my fingers dance over the notes and I think of the darkness and the stars in the sky. Still the sound of it is melancholy, and it is all too easy to fill the gaps in the rise and fall of the rhythm and melody. The end I play slower than it is written, because this is when I think of Gale and how he walked away from me moments ago, as if it were the easiest thing he's ever done. And I know, with crushing clarity, that this is how it will always be.

_Footnotes:_

_The _Bear_ to which Gale refers is, of course, Ursa Major (the Big Dipper). Not that it really matters for the purpose of this story, but I imagine that he sees the "handle" end of the constellation as the bear's head, rather than the traditional orientation where it is an anatomically incorrect tail. Just my two cents. For those of you who prefer tailed bears, more power to you._

_In case anyone is curious, the song that Madge is playing at the end of this chapter (at least in my head) is Chopin's _Nocturne 20 in C# Minor_. Not an exceptionally original choice, I admit, but it is incredibly fitting in my opinion. Look it up and listen to it if you have three or four minutes of free time. It is lovely, and worth the effort._


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note**

**After a couple of long, intense chapters, here's something shorter and (I suppose by comparison) less intense. I hope you are not too terribly disappointed. There are actually a lot of important things happening here, they're just not as much fun as a _not-kiss_ :) So I couldn't skip this part. Also, for those of you who follow along regularly (thank you again!), I will likely be unable to update until after the first of the year what with all the December holidays and such. Fear not! I shall return! Until then, Happy-Whatever-You-Celebrate!**

Sunlight wakes me. Or rather, a change in the darkness. The sun isn't up yet, but it's on its way. Birds are starting to chatter in the trees, the world is coming to life again. Full awareness crashes in like a rockslide as I sit bolt-upright. My clothes are damp with morning dew, my mouth sticky with what is left of the mint leaves from last night. Grateful to not have choked to death in my sleep, I lean over and spit out the soggy green remnants. _Yuck. At least there was no one else here to see that._ Though I'd _thought_ about sleeping in the meadow overnight, I hadn't really _meant_ to. Rest had been elusive as I had lain here and watched the moon pass across the sky. The way my mind was swirling I didn't think sleep would come for days. Apparently it snuck up on me.

I get to my feet stiffly as I gauge the light in the sky. It's not often that the sun beats me to it; there is no way I'll have time to check my lines and still get to school on time. I consider whether to do it anyway, and it isn't much of a debate. My family needs to eat, and I'll be done with school in a few weeks, so it's not like they're going to care much at this point. I immediately stomp that thought into submission because it means that I'll be taking a job in the mine soon. Even as much as it will help my family, since it will earn me a (pathetic) paycheck, I don't like thinking about it. The darkness. The confining tunnels. The ever-present grime.

The girl from town that will come to her senses.

Damn it. I'd been doing pretty well so far not thinking of her. I made it all of, what, five minutes?

I consider going straight to the woods from here, but my bag is still at home and a change of clothes would be nice, so as I walk back, I try to remember what I had almost sorted out last night just before I dozed off. I had it all figured out, in that narrow space between sleep and consciousness. Now, the harder I chase it the farter it gets from me, like a dream upon waking. But last night was no dream. The spark in her, her smile, the way she looked – _really looked_ – at me… that was real.

When I walk in the door everyone stops to look at me, and I freeze, too, because I am unaccustomed to so much business in the morning. I am usually up and long gone before my mother has to get the boys to school.

"What are you doing here?" Mom asks, surprised. She must not have realized that I never made it home last night, and just assumed I'd already departed before dawn.

"I overslept," I say. I don't really feel like going into detail.

"Where?" she asks, eying me curiously as she goes back to fixing Vick's shirt, which he has buttoned crooked all the way down.

"The meadow," I say a little more defensively than necessary. I realize after it's too late that there was no specific accusation behind the question, just curiosity as to where all the dirt came from. My tone rouses her suspicions, and I kick myself for it.

"Why," she asks, but her inflection implies more demand than question.

Rory saves me. Sort of. "Oh, that's where he goes when he's worked up over something."

"Oh?" She finishes Vick's shirt and gives him a piece of toast to keep him busy.

"Yeah. You missed the part where he and Madge were fighting like cats and dogs," he says casually before he takes a mouthful of his own breakfast. He makes a point not to make eye contact with me. Not that it matters. The look I get from my mother makes up for at least three people.

"Gale…." Her voice takes on that warning edge, the one that says _I have enough to worry about already without you being an idiot_. She's never actually called me an idiot, but I'm pretty sure I've tempted her over the years.

"He's exaggerating, Mom," I say flatly. I move toward the bedroom in the hope that it will end the conversation.

"That girl has been nothing but good to us, and you can't be civil to her for more than five seconds in a row. What _is_ it with you and her?" she says.

_That's the million dollar question, isn't it?_ And I had been so close to answering it last night. I don't hate her, she doesn't look down on me, and… it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. We're pretty much where we started. Except, last night…. "Nothing," I answer, even though I'm not sure whether I'm lying. "We're okay now." I pray that she'll let it go at that.

I change into a clean pair of pants, and am half-way through buttoning a fresh shirt when I hear the bedroom door open behind me. I look over my shoulder to find Rory standing there, and I'm ready to give him hell but the look on his face stops me.

"Get out here. You gotta see this."

….

I feel like I'm sleepwalking as I plate a spatula-full of eggs. Even though I played on the piano last night until I could barely keep my eyes open, they refused to shut as I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Funny that now that I have to be awake sleep hangs over me like a fog.

I stare blankly at the plates on the counter before me, trying to remember what I'm supposed to do with them, and finally snap out of it at the sound of Rose's voice. "You feeling okay?" She's in early today to help with breakfast, since the media team has to be up earlier than usual to catch their train. Thank goodness. If the morning meal had been left up to me, I might have inadvertently burned the house down. Although, with any luck at all, the reporters might not have escaped.

"Just tired, Rosie," I say with what I hope passes for a smile.

"Are you sure?" she asks with motherly concern. "Because that's the third time I asked you."

I nod again. "I didn't sleep very well."

A sudden commotion in the parlor gets our attention, and a knot of worry replaces the pall of exhaustion. Because that's where the television is. Where they're watching the Games. I drop what I'm doing and poke my head into the doorway where I catch Tangerine's eye. She waves me over excitedly and points to the screen.

Utter bedlam is the only way to describe the scene. Tributes scramble hysterically through the woods. One girl collapses in a bone-wrenching seizure. A second one falls moments later. Katniss shimmies down from her tree and looks woozy and panicked.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Turns out Twelve's _Eleven_ may be worth her salt after all," says Lima Bean. "She just dropped that tracker-jacker nest on their little hunting party."

"Got a couple stings herself though," adds Tangerine. "Look."

As Katniss zigzags through the forest her strides look wobbly, and it becomes apparent that the winding path she takes is actually the closest she can manage to a straight line. She jumps into the little pool where she had been resting yesterday, head swiveling crazily to spot any pursuing wasps.

"How bad is it?" I ask, "How many got her?"

"A few," Tangerine says, "but she pulled the stingers out right away, I think. "She'll feel it, no doubt, but it won't be as bad as the others."

The camera comes back to the two thrashing girls and alternates between close-ups of rupturing boils and rolling eyes and clawing, bloodied fingers. The scene cuts briefly to a view of the other Careers diving for safety into the lake before coming back to Katniss. Who is staggering back to the place where she dropped the nest. _Is she out of her mind?_ I feel stupid the moment the thought crosses my mind. _Of course she is_.

"I can't believe she's going back…" says Lima Bean, as if he can't decide if she's incredibly brave or completely insane.

"_The bow_," I gasp before I can catch myself. All eyes turn to me, and I know I can't tell them why she's after that particular weapon, so I try to make it sound good. "That girl was the one who shot at her last night. She had a bow and arrows. Katniss doesn't have a good weapon – only a knife. She probably thinks this is her best chance to steal one."

"That's true," says one of the cameramen, whom I have dubbed _Pincushion_ for the odd metal jewelry that adorns his face and neck. "A better weapon will help her odds…." Even after all the time he's spent in our home, it's still hard to look at him.

We watch my friend tromp unsteadily through the trees while the remaining careers regroup at the lake shore. Several of them head back toward the woods, presumably to hunt her down, and I am relieved to see that Peeta is among them. _Maybe he'll lead them away again_. Katniss battles terror and revulsion as she finally drops to her knees next to the girl with the silver bow and fights clumsily to wrench it from her grip.

"Hurry," I whisper, because the Careers are getting close. I glance at the media team around me, and they are staring wide-eyed and breathless, too. When Tangerine begins to pantomime pulling the strap of the quiver free of an imaginary corpse's shoulder, I realize that they are rooting for Katniss, too. Actually cheering her on. Wanting her to succeed. _This is _perfect_. This is what she needs – what _we_ need_. As long as she survives.

Then, just as Katniss frees her weapons, someone crashes through the underbrush.

...

Katniss Everdeen is alive because Peeta Mellark got there first. I roll the thought around a few times, flip it over, take it apart, put it back together while I sit in a tree and wait for game to pass. This process is usually pretty effective when I want to try to figure out how something works. But it fails me at the moment.

It probably has something to do with the end result potentially being Changing My Mind. Which is honestly one of my least favorite things to do. Right up there with Apologizing (also potentially necessary at this point) and Feeling Guilty. Hell, I'd rather fletch all my arrows again, because then I would at least be doing something constructive.

But deep down I know that even _that_ isn't the biggest reason it's so difficult. It's not being able to deny the fact that I hadn't given Katniss half a thought this morning until Rory called me out to the television. The feeling that I had somehow betrayed her by being so distracted. Loving her aside, that makes me a sorry excuse for a _friend_, doesn't it? And I do love her. But I want to take _Madge_ apart, see how she works, put her back together piece by beautiful, infuriating piece… what does _that_ mean? Especially since it would seem that she's already begun doing it, with _astonishing_ skill, to me? And there it is, the guilt that never quite loses its edge. Trifecta.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a fox slip out of sight in the undergrowth and I curse myself for such a lapse in vigilence. It's lucky to see one so late in the morning, and I'm stupid for letting it get away. _Hunting is all I have right now, and I can't even do _this_ right_. Its pelt would fetch a handsome price at the tanner's, far more than the rabbits and raccoons, and Rory is about due for a new pair of shoes.

Thinking of my brother brings on a new wave of anxiety, one that I know has been coming for a while but have been trying to avoid. Since the day he caught that carp we've been tense, strung tight. This morning he'd finally plucked the string, and even now it's like it's still humming.

_Thanks a lot for bailing me out there_, I had growled sarcastically on my way out the door while my mother was out of earshot. He had stared hard at me, and said _I could do a better job of covering for you if you'd teach me to shoot so I could take over the days you don't make it to the woods_. Never mind the fact that it wouldn't have really helped him cover for me; that wasn't the point he was actually trying to make. I compromised by telling him to catch me another fish and walking away before he could push the issue. Because I don't know how to get him to appreciate that I could technically be _executed_ for hunting and trapping in the forest. How to get him to realize he shouldn't be so eager to grow up. Been there. Done that. So he wouldn't have to.

Thinking of Rory fishing for bait reminds me of Madge again, and that just refreshes all the confusing emotions she elicits, especially the guilt. And the guilt makes me think of Katniss, and I'm back where I started. Katniss Everdeen is alive because Peeta Mellark got there first. And I can't even be angry about it, because that would mean I'd rather he didn't, and _that_ would mean she would be dead. There are no words for how grateful I am that she is alive – injured, sick, but alive. But I can't shake the sense that I've still lost something along the way.

Katniss Everdeen is alive _because Peeta Mellark got there first_.

….

"Oh, I can't believe we have to leave _now_, of all times!" Tangerine shrieks. She and the rest of the team are flung into a tizzy by the events of the Hunger Games. The baker's son from District Twelve just saved his true love from certain death, sustained a grievous injury for his trouble, and now may die as a result. How perfectly, tragically _romantic_. It has the makings of a front-page story.

Never mind that the entire scenario is sick and twisted. He shouldn't have to be saving her life in the first place.

Lima Bean scribbles furiously in a notepad. "Do you think we have time to –"

"We're the only ones taking the train back, right? I'm sure we can get them to delay our departure time…."

_Oh dear God no… anything but that_. "What is it that you need?" I ask innocently.

"We _need_ time to talk to people," Tangerine says, as if it ought to be obvious. "This is the _perfect_ time for interviews with the tribute families." She turns to the rest of her team like I have disappeared altogether. "How close are we to the baker's?"

A debate ensues as to whether it would be better to go to the Mellarks' home first because it is here in town, or last because it is closer to the train station than the Everdeens'. Pincushion takes it upon himself to snatch up a telephone and contact the justice building to find out how to change the train schedule. Lima Bean suggests that the decision should be made after they find out how much time they can have. "We don't want to get _stuck_ here," he says, and with a sidelong glance my way adds, "No offense." I smile sweetly and think of the last load of their laundry which mysteriously shrank.

Tangerine is right; they will be the only ones on it when the train leaves, so I can't believe they think it would actually leave _without_ them_. Where do they think they are?_ But, if it keeps them moving out the door and away from District Twelve, I'm not going to suggest otherwise.

Still, I can't stand the thought of them terrorizing the Mellarks, whose son might not survive past the end of the week as a result of his heroic actions, or Prim, whose sister is alive but lying in the bottom of a pit hurt and hallucinating from mutant insect venom. They won't get what they really want from the tribute families, anyway. _I_ know what they're after - What they need is the reaction of a _Capitol_ citizen, someone blind to the horror and swept off their feet by the romance and tragedy of the Star-Crossed Lovers from Twelve, just like they are. And that's what Katniss and Peeta need, what a _rebellion_ needs, too. I'll be despised for this, I know it. The Mayor's daughter is already too close to the Capitol as it is. But this isn't about _me_. Everyone already hates me anyhow.

"Claudia," I say, "Interview me."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:**

**I'm back! If this is not my best work, alow me a moment to make a few lame excuses: Holidays were a mess, computer was hosed (as in had to reinstall windows from SCRATCH), literally DAYS were spent updating Vista before I could use it properly (because it was so poorly designed upon it's release that there are now 2,347,984 patches for it), and I got the flu. THE FLU. I need a Gale moment - Happy &*#ing New Year. There. Better now. This probably needs some more editing, but at this point I just need to move on. Feedback is, as always, greatly appreciated.**

**Also, a thank-you: Somebody posted a link to my story on Tumblr, which is way cool! I stumbled across it by accident. I don't know who you are, and I have a very limited understanding of what Tumblr actually is, but I still want to say thanks!**

The evening of the tracker-jacker incident, I get to see a clip of Katniss' cousin politely giving the capitol reporters hell. Apparently, they'd been keeping that particular bit of interview footage in their back pocket, waiting for the perfect dramatic moment.

"You'll get your show," he says with unwavering confidence after quashing Tangerine's suggestions of cowardice. "But it'll be on her time." The camera lingers on him for a moment, beautiful and defiant, gray eyes like thunder and lightning before he turns and marches away. The effect his ferocious loyalty has on his chiseled, smoldering features doesn't do him any favors. They're going to _love_ him. They'll chase him to the ends of the earth to talk to him again when they come back for more interviews. He'll probably start getting fan mail.

It'll be another day or two before my interview airs. I'd hoped to give them what they needed and sent them right back to the Capitol, but they had been unfortunately successful in delaying their return trip until the afternoon, so they still got to pick at the bones of the Mellarks and Everdeens alike. I can't believe that there was anything left for them at this point, after all both families have been through and witnessed these past few weeks. I should have put ipecaq in their breakfast coffee while I had the chance.

I worry about Katniss because she has been unconscious since she fell into the shallow pit in the woods, but more about Peeta with his nasty leg wound from the leader of the Career Pack. The day after, Claudius Templesmith even invites a Capitol physician as a guest commentator for the evening highlights to speculate on the fates of the injured tributes and to analyze in detail the unpleasant demise of the deceased ones. I suspect that this is done for the sake of the gamblers who bet on the Games. According to the doctor on television, Katniss ought to recuperate in a few days as long as no one finds her, but Peeta's fate is more uncertain. Without treatment, the deep gash in his leg could become septic and result in a slow, painful, lingering death. Templesmith has the gall to announce that Peeta's best hope might actually be for another tribute to find him and dispatch him quickly. When they comment on the tragedy of it all, I can only hope it inspires some wealthy, sentimental sponsor to send medicine. Peeta and Katniss won't get any sympathy as two dying innocents, but a pair of devoted-but-unlucky lovers? _Now that's the stuff._ I suddenly wish my interview could go on the program _tonight_. It made me sick to do it, put I played that hand heavily; it was and _is_ the best chance to get the Capitol on their side.

When we are alone for once, my father reassures me that there has been no indication that the Capitol is aware of our manipulations. It would seem, as far as our sources could tell, that there was only some displeasure at the fact that the Tributes from Twelve had eclipsed the other more favored districts. This soothes my concerns a little, but the fear that our contacts could be wrong still gnaws at the back of my mind.

I confess that I offered myself for an interview with the media team because he'll find out eventually, and I expect to be reamed for being so forward. From the beginning, Dad had been adamant that I remain behind-the-scenes with my involvement in the rebellious anti-Capitol plot; plausible deniability was my priority number one, and while I found the restrictions it set down irksome I had to appreciate his concern for my safety. He surprises me with praise for my effort, because of the aid it might bring our Tributes and the picture it paints of the Capitol-loyal Mayor's daughter. _Great_, I think, _everyone _here_ will love that, though, won't they? _

I can only hope that Prim and her mother will understand my motivation when they see how shallow I was about the whole thing. I don't even want to think about what Gale's reaction might be. Selfishly, I almost regret my actions for that singular reason. That probably makes me a Horrible Person again, but let's be honest, I'm starting to get used to being one. It was just a little easier when I wasn't on the edge of having something to lose.

….

I spend a few extra hours in the woods on Saturday morning to tweak my lines of snares. The last few days have seen a lighter haul, which means it's time to shake things up a bit. Move some of the traps, block a few game runs to steer prey in the right direction. I enjoy the work. It keeps my mind off of everything else I can't do anything about. Because I _can_ do this, and do it well. I think briefly of the times I had done this with Katniss, tried to get her to see the lines way I see them, and though she grasped some of it she never quite understood it all. In truth, it isn't something that I can easily articulate, more just something that I _know_.

Rory's latest catch gets me a few more raccoons and a slew of catfish, even a few trout. I balance a heavy log on a stick above the remaining carcass, and hope to find bigger game caught there in the morning; it's been a while since Greasy Sae has had wild dog stew for sale at the Hob. With any luck, fishing will keep my brother satisfied for a while so I make a mental note to tell him how much of a help it has been for me.

I am pleased to find that today's kills more than make up for yesterday, when I came home nearly empty-handed. If it weren't for Madge's leftovers, we might have had to skip dinner last night. And she was a big part of the reason I was utterly incompetent. I catch myself as I begin to resent owing her all over again, try to force my head back around the conversation we'd shared the night I walked her back to town, see how it feels to accept that she expects nothing in return. It's a weird place to be in. But the longer I stay there, the less uncomfortable it becomes.

On my way back to the fence I find myself detouring to the place where I know I will find wild strawberries. When I get there, I crouch down to inspect the plants and stare at them for a long time when I see that the little fruits have turned bright red. I stay there until my knees ache and my feet feel numb, the colors shimmer and swirl from not blinking, something inside me slowly twists itself up again. Because when I discovered them ripe for the picking, the thrill it brought had nothing to do with the coin they are worth.

….

My mother is starting to rebound again, and since she's up and awake a little more I have a chance to get back to my music. Playing the nocturne the other night did little to scratch the itch to play again. It only made me appreciate all the more how much it does to soothe my mind. When I very young and just starting to learn, before I really started to understand the world, I had hoped that with practice and determination I could perform well enough to go to the glamorous, exotic, colorful Capitol someday, study in a conservatory, play with a symphony. As the years went by, I realized that the Capitol was a place that I wished never existed and I couldn't believe that I'd ever wanted to see it, be part of it. And in a way, it made me love my music even more. No longer was this instrument my ticket to a grand adventure; it was my closest confidante. I don't have anyone with whom to share my cares and worries. But with my piano – I can put all of it into the keys, and everything fades into the ether as each note strikes and fades. While I am playing, the sounds lift the weight from my shoulders and all is right with the world.

I've lost track of how many consecutive times I have replayed my latest etude, because it is a difficult one. I had tried playing something lighter and easier, but anything in a major key just didn't feel right, and the simpler compositions allowed my mind to wander too much. The focus required to execute this piece keeps me distracted, even if I haven't quite mastered the technical skill. But I'm getting close. _One more time and I'll have it_ perfect….

I'm so engrossed in my efforts that I nearly miss the knocking at the back door. And even when I hear it, I forget that it is Saturday morning until I'm halfway through the kitchen, and not until I twist the doorknob do I remember that this is the part where my heart is supposed to leap into my throat.

I feel a little dizzy when I open the door and find him there. I'm accustomed to the butterflies that flit around my stomach when I know I'll see Gale standing at my back porch with a pail of fresh strawberries; it's just that they feel more like _birds_ today, since I hadn't been paying attention and they caught me a bit my surprise. If he notices that I'm flustered, and I'm certain that he does because he always seems to watch everything so carefully, he is kind enough to pretend that he doesn't. He just looks at me, his face unreadable like it usually is when he is not scowling at me. _ I guess that's a step in the right direction_, I think, _I've moved up from contempt to… nothing_. I knew I'd hoped for too much the other night….

"Hi," I manage with a small smile.

Gale hesitates just long enough for me to wonder what is wrong, then blinks suddenly as if just now remembering why he is here. His bag yields a small paper-wrapped package. "There aren't as many as last time," he says, "but they look better."

The weight and feel of the package indicates that it is indeed filled with strawberries. I nod. "I'll be right back," I say, "and I think I still owe you your bucket from last time."

I leave the door open as I walk away into the kitchen so I can watch him from the corner of my eye while I get money from the jar above the stove. How did this become so awkward? I hope for some clue from him, but he only leans lazily against the door frame, patient and still.

"How much?" I ask.

"Ten," comes the even reply.

That's less than usual. "Are you sure?" I say.

"Twenty, then," he says. I can't tell if his tone is snide or mischievous.

"Five it is," I answer cheerfully as I count out the coins. I let my eyes drift up to see his reaction, hoping I have chosen the correct response. He isn't looking at me now, but a stubborn smile pulls at his mouth. I bring the money and the empty bucket back to the door. "But I guess that interview of yours earns you a little bit if a tip."

The smile wins out as he laughs. "You like that?" he says.

I smile but I find I can't look him in the eye any longer. _Oh, these loaded questions_. "Loved it," I respond softly.

….

I pocket the money without bothering to see how much she decided to actually give me. For once it doesn't matter. That shy smile and the knowledge that she approves of my attitude problem is payment enough. _Maybe she's right. Maybe we're not so far apart_….

And seeing her stretch to reach the cupboard over her head, how it separated the bottom of her blouse from the top of her skirt to reveal an inch of smooth, soft skin just at the inward curve of her waistline – well, that helped, too.

Her pretty smile fades a little as she sighs and says, "I wish I could have said something like that."

I look at her curiously. "What do you mean?"

Madge shakes her head with a faint, wry chuckle. "Heh," she says as she turns to retrieve the package of berries from the table where she left them, "I gave an interview yesterday, before they left." She comes back and steps outside with me, drops onto the step and starts to open the paper.

I waver for a moment, and take it as an invitation to join her. I'm still not entirely sure that I ought to stay, but at the same time it seems like it would be rude to leave at this point. Funny how only a few weeks ago I wouldn't have much cared.

"I take it didn't go well?" I say. Technically speaking, mine didn't either, but that's not a bad thing.

"Oh, it went great," she says as she chooses a berry and picks the leaves from the top. "That's the thing about it. It was awful." She shakes her head as she inspects the fruit critically, and I realize that I'm _really_ looking forward to watching her eat it. Madge says something while I imagine her slowly biting into it, the red staining her lips… and my reverie is interrupted when she pops the whole thing in her mouth and chomps on it angrily. There is nothing alluring about the way she does this. I prop my head up on one hand and watch her finish. _So much for that_. The strange thing is I'm not exactly disappointed; somehow it just makes her seem more real.

"I hate that, you know?" she says with quiet fury.

I flounder for a moment, because I like what the emotion does to her voice, and I hadn't been paying close enough attention to what she was saying to know what _that_ was. I make a neutral-sounding noise, and she doesn't appear to notice that I missed something along the way. Instead, she picks up another strawberry and holds the package in front of me.

"Want one?" she asks.

I feel a little awkward taking something I just sold her. "You bought them. They're yours."

"Yes, Gale, they're mine and I'm sharing them," she says with exasperation.

I don't know why, but I take two just to be obnoxious. Madge gives me a look that calls me a smartass without actually saying the word, and goes back to removing the leaves from her next berry. "I just hope I got Katniss and Peeta a few sponsors."

That's when it hits me, like a swift kick to the gut, and I feel like I can't quite swallow the strawberry I'm eating. The guilt that never completely leaves me, that comes back worse every time. I make a concerted effort not to look at the girl sitting next to me, not to notice how her golden hair frames her face, how her long eyelashes splay across her cheeks when she looks down at her hands.

She doesn't let me ignore her though; she drops her head to look at me again, and her startling blue eyes pull me back in. "I'm sorry for complaining at you," she says, "but thank you for listening to me."

I shrug, and decide not to tell her I was doing more looking than listening. "That was nothing," I say. "You complained for, what, thirty whole seconds?"

Madge gets to her feet as the shy smile returns. "Maybe a little longer than that. But either way, I'm sure there's a million other ways you'd rather spend your time, so I still appreciate it."

I stand with her. "Don't mention it. I'm pretty good at it - I do a lot of listening… just not to _people_." This gets her to laugh, and I like it. It's almost as much fun as making her mad.

She is almost through the door and back into the kitchen when I stop her. I'm not sure what makes me do it. I'm not sure why I can't _keep_ myself from doing it. "Was that you, before?" I ask, gesturing behind her into the house. She looks confused, so I explain, "The music. Was that you playing?"

She blinks at me once, twice, nods. "You heard it?"

"I listened a minute when you didn't hear me knock the first time. It sounded like it would be hard to play."

She looks vaguely embarrassed. "It is. I messed up a few places."

I wouldn't know. "It sounded like…." I search for the right words, to paint the picture that was in my head. "Like autumn. Falling leaves in the breeze."

Madge lights up at this, her smile no longer shy but vibrant and contagious. It's hard to look at her again, it hurts, like walking east at sunrise.

So I turn to leave. "Carry on," I say over my shoulder. "Don't mess up this time."

"I'll try."

_What just happened?_ I struggle not to answer my own question as the guilt creeps back in, along with that confusing ache, when I walk away. Because I know what the answer is. It was so much easier when she was just a pretty girl I couldn't have. I'd tried to go back to what it had been before, what was _normal_, selling a pint of strawberries, a simple transaction, no more. It was hopeless from the start, though, from the second I saw the berries in the woods, even went looking for them in the first place. I can't deny it. I was so much easier before. _Fuck. Now we're friends_.

_Footnote: My story has a soundtrack! For those inquiring minds out there, Madge is playing Debussy's Etude No. 1. Look it up and take a listen. I'm holding my Madge to some pretty high standards – this is a very difficult piece, so I'm writing her as quite the talent. But in my mind, she has lots of time to practice. _


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:**

**Apologies for the long time between updates again... This chapter was _very_ difficult to write. In the interest of not giving away too much before you read it, I'll just say that my aim was to create two very similar experiences that occur under somwhat differing circumstances. Please review, because 1) it tells me if I'm doing this right, and 2) it makes me very happy :) Thank you for reading!**

I come home from the woods on Sunday to an empty house, and immediately suspecting the worst I dash to the Everdeens'. We never go to visit this early in the day; something must have happened, they must have thought Prim would be upset…. Had Katniss' condition suddenly worsened? Had another Tribute found her while she languished in that pit in the trees? Had a surprise, Gamemaker-induced thunderstorm dropped buckets of water into the arena, filling the little hole where she lay and drowning her while she was still unconscious? A thousand bizarre-but-possible scenarios play out in my mind in microscopic detail as I sprint down the street. It must be hell to be in the Games – but living through them on this side of a television is near as bad.

I crash through the door without knocking and nearly trip over my own feet. "What happened?" I demand before I even survey the scene, and it's a split second later that it hits me – how completely the sense of panic had overtaken me, how easily the pieces had fallen apart. A roomful of people stare at me like I've lost it (which I have, whether I want to admit it or not), and I see that they are all in fairly good spirits considering the circumstances. Two of them are Prim and her mother. Four of them are my mother and siblings. Two more are a Seam lady and her small son, whom I don't even know. And one, of _course_… one is Madge Undersee.

"Nothing! What?" my mother asks in alarm before it all dawns on her. "Oh, I should've left you a note, I didn't think that you'd worry..." she says apologetically.

Posy hops off her perch on the couch and walks toward me, waving a colorful, mangled disc in one hand. "Catnip is awake!" she chirps, and I see that her lips are pink and green. "And Miss Madge brought cookies!"

_So _that's_ what that thing was. _ "Did she." One by one, I start sweeping up the pieces, fitting them back into place, promising myself that the next time the glue will hold.

"Well, they're actually from Mr. Mellark," says Madge. "I just carried them here."

"Oh," I say stupidly, because the pieces rattle a little at the sound of her voice. I choose to focus on my sister for a minute, to pull myself together before I ask for details about Katniss. Just because she's awake doesn't mean she's entirely _all right_.

"Yep," Posy says before spinning in a circle. "And she brought me flowers, too, see?" She points a frosting-covered finger at the back of her head to indicate a cluster of pale pink flowers pinned into her ponytail. When she spins back around to face me again, she leaves a thick smear of icing in her hair.

"Pose, did you get _any_ of that cookie _in_ your mouth?" I sigh. Her small brow creases in confusion and my mother stifles a laugh.

"What _else_ am I supposed to do with it, Gale?" my sister says with a theatrical eye-roll.

I look to Prim and Mrs. Everdeen, who are standing at the kitchen table with the two strangers. "Do you have a towel or napkin or something?" I ask.

Mrs. Everdeen, who never smiles, almost starts to when she nods and points Prim toward a cupboard behind her.

"I didn't mean to barge in and yell at you," I offer when Prim brings me a threadbare dishtowel. "I just – we never come over here so early."

Prim smiles at me. "It's okay," she says. "Madge came by with a whole box full of cookies from the bakery, and we thought we ought to share." She shrugs lightly. "So we walked down to your house to invite the kids over." I look at Rory while I try to wipe some of the frosting out of Posy's hair, wondering if he thinks he's been lumped in with the kids and has taken offense to it; I don't think Prim necessarily meant anything by it, but he hangs on everything she does. He appears to have missed it altogether, likely because in his eyes she cannot _possibly_ do anything wrong.

"If you want a cookie," Madge adds, "you better go get one. There may not be any left for you if Posy has anything to do with it."

"I'm good," I say quickly, and I force a half-smile to show her that, for once, she isn't the thing that's on my nerves. I may be getting over the fact that Madge Undersee brought the cookies, but I don't want a gift from Peeta Mellark's family. "Eat up, chickadee," I tell my sister, "just try to keep it out of your hair." I give no more than moment's thought to cleaning up her face, too, because as long as there's icing still within reach the effort would be a waste. Might as well wait till she's done. "So, Katniss is…?"

"She's awake," says Prim as she goes back to helping her mother. "She looks a little tired – I guess it took a lot out of her – but so far she seems okay."

"Gale, that reminds me," says Mrs. Everdeen without looking up from the boy sitting on the edge of their table, whose arm she is examining closely, "next time you're on the other side of the fence, could you bring me more coneflowers? I'm down to a handful. You know the ones, right?"

"Yep." They're one of the plants that are easy for me to identify. I can gather those without help.

"Pull them up by the roots," Prim adds as she stirs a small jar of ingredients into a thick paste. Her mother eyes the concoction and nods approvingly, and dots a tiny glob of the stuff inside the boy's elbow. "It's the most important part."

Her interest piqued, Madge twists in her seat, folds her arms on the back of the couch, watches the Everdeens with interest. "What do you use them for?" she asks.

"Oh all kinds of things…" Prim says as she tightens the lid on the jar and gives it to the boy's mother.

I force myself to watch the television so I don't have to pay so much attention to the way Madge cocks her head when Prim begins listing the uses for coneflowers. After a while, the cameras come to Katniss as she pulls an arrow from a slain rabbit. _Good_, I think, _show them you can shoot, give them another reason to bet on you_. She needs all the help she can get right now; she is alive, awake, alert, but too thin, too pale. Angry welts still mar her cheek and neck where the wasps stung her. But there is a stubborn determination about her. A spark.

….

I concentrate very closely on my conversation with Prim to keep myself from concentrating on Gale. Though Katniss' sister is animated and the knowledge that she so loves to share is actually pretty interesting, it's a trying task; even when he is only sitting there, silent and motionless, I don't want to miss a moment of it. But I'm certain that despite being turned to the television right now, those sharp eyes would not miss me staring at him, and the thought that he would notice is horrifying enough to keep me focused on Prim.

"I think we have some of those in our garden," I tell her. "The next time we thin them out, I'll keep them for you. I had no idea you used them for all that."

She smiles at this, nods enthusiastically. "Hopefully my sister remembers this is one of the plants we use for this kind of thing," she says, as she indicates the boy on her table. His mother had knocked on the door not long after we'd come back with the Hawthornes, and asked Mrs. Everdeen to treat his nasty spider bite. "Tracker-jacker stings probably need something stronger than this, but it'd probably help a little and they should be pretty easy to find."

Prim offers the boy a cookie while his mother pays them for their expertise with a few pennies and a quarter of butter. He hesitates before taking it from her, and stares at it reverently as they leave; it occurs to me that it is likely the first time he's ever been given such a decadent treat. Even Gale's brothers and sisters, who I imagine are better fed than most in this part of Twelve, had been awestruck when I opened the box for them, and Prim had nearly cried. I regret for a moment agreeing to deliver the gift for Mr. Mellark; he asked me this morning when I visited his bakery and mentioned that I'd shared the last few loaves of bread I had bought with Prim and her family. He'd have loved to see how happy and surprised they were himself. But then, I got the impression he didn't want his wife to know that he was being so generous. Even now I feel tears prick my own eyes.

Prim announces that she has to go feed her goat, and Rory jumps up, eagerly offering to help. She accepts the offer happily, but seems to be utterly blind to the fact that he's head over heels for her. It's cute, funny, and sad all rolled into one. I guess I can relate. But at least _she_ doesn't despise _him_.

_I suppose Gale doesn't exactly _despise_ me anymore_, I think as I steal a glance at him. He had been downright friendly yesterday, even after _I_ had been downright whiney, which had surprised and thrilled me to the point that I finally had to give up on practicing my etude because I was so distracted reliving what he'd said to me. Even today he didn't seem to mind when he saw me here. I decide to indulge myself for a moment, and try to make it look like I'm watching the Games broadcast while I study his handsome profile. I wonder if he knows he's gorgeous. _He absolutely knows_, I answer myself dryly as I call to mind the girls that flirt with him at school, the things I've heard whispered when he walks by. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty. That wouldn't make him love me, I know. Many of those whispering, flirtatious girls were prettier than I am, and none of them ever lasted long. But it wouldn't hurt. I wonder if….

"Can I have another cookie, Miss Madge?" Gale's sister snaps me back to reality with her request, ostentatiously posed to me because she knows what the response will be from Hazelle.

"Well…." I stall, hoping her mother overheard.

Hazelle turns from the television to face us. "No Posy, you've already had three. And that's two more than you really need at once," she says with a small chuckle. "You'll make yourself sick."

"She had three?" squeaks Vick. "No fair!"

"How isn't that fair?" Hazelle asks. "You all got the same thing."

"I only had two!"

Hazelle raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Vick Hawthorne, if I find out you're lying to me…."

"He isn't lying Mom," Gale says. "You'd know if he was. He's terrible at it."

"Would I?" she says, eyeing her youngest son carefully.

"I'm not lying, Mom. I only had two."

"Remember when that pitcher of milk got spilled all over the kitchen floor, the whole thing, and he said Rory did it?" Gale asks. "Did you think for even an _instant_ that it was really Rory?"

Hazelle struggles mightily to keep a straight face. "_One_, no more," she says as she gets up from her chair.

"Give me one of the ones with the candy pieces," Vick says. "Posy can have the ones with the icing – those are her favorite."

I am amazed at – and a little envious of – this exchange. One moment complaining that his sister ate one more cookie than he did, and the next making sure that he didn't take one of the ones she liked best. I feel like I've somehow missed out by being an only child.

Prim and Rory come back inside, laughing hysterically about something until we all look at the two of them, at which point they stop abruptly. Prim recovers after a second. "So, what's for dinner, Gale?" she asks.

"The fattest brace of rabbits you've ever seen," he answers.

She looks at me. "You're staying for supper again, right? Two rabbits – there'll be plenty to share…."

I hadn't planned on staying too long today. My initial motivation for visiting was to get a chance to speak to Prim and explain myself before she sees any of my interview, which is sure to air soon. She had been more than understanding, which made me feel a little better, and Mr. Mellark's box of cookies provided a convenient way to end on a positive note. Plus need to go home, and have an uncomfortable conversation with my mother. Which I am dreading. Putting it off a little is tempting, to be honest, and if I stay late enough, maybe Hazelle will make Gale walk home with me again…. "I can stay a while, sure."

….

_Of course she can_, I think as I get up and retrieve the rabbits from my bag. After I shoo Prim away from the kitchen so she doesn't have to watch me skin the animals (I left them whole today, so I could feed her ugly cat), it occurs to me that the snide thought was more force of habit than genuine sentiment. I'm not really all that bothered that Madge agreed to stay with us.

I look over my shoulder and see that Rory has produced a pair of hand-made dice from a pocket, and the kids start teaching Madge how to play a game with them. She'll keep them entertained, at least. I take my time dissecting the rabbits, in no hurry to watch any more of the Hunger Games right now. I'm glad that Katniss is back on her feet, but it's hard to watch her in this condition. It's hard to watch knowing that Peeta Mellark saved her life.

I peer at the box of cookies out of the corner of my eye. _His son saves Katniss in the arena, so the baker sends her family a gigantic box of baked goods. How does _that_ work?_ It irks me to no end. They're sitting next to the sink where I'm working, and after a couple minutes of trying to resist the temptation I lean over to look at them out of curiosity. They look amazing. There are probably a half dozen different kinds, and a hefty pile of each one. They even _smell_ amazing. Which annoys me even more.

I hear Rory shout from across the room. "Oh, just eat one, Gale!"

If there weren't six other people sitting there at the moment, my brother would have had a bloody rabbit pelt flung at his head. Instead, I count to five and answer calmly, "I said I'm good. Maybe later." _You know, like three days after hell freezes over_.

I look back down at the cleaned game in my hands and wonder for the first time why I'm bothering. They may be two _fine_ rabbits, but how does this even begin to compare to the extravagant display sitting just to the side of them? Nobody jumps up and down and beams with joy over a rabbit. Nobody has to be kept out of a kitchen because baking cookies is an ugly process. I sigh and lean into the counter for a minute, close my eyes, remember that I _promised_ myself that the glue would hold this time.

Eventually I hear the chatter in the living room behind me quiet, then stop altogether, and I feel a light hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes when I hear my name.

"Gale." The voice belongs to Madge, and I am simultaneously relieved and furious that of all the people here _she_ is the one I find standing next to me right now. I don't want it to be her, but I don't want it to be anyone else either. "Are you all right?"

I look at her without moving my head, and see her eyes flicker over my face, my bloody hands, the mess in the sink, the baker's box on the counter. Suddenly, something in her face tells me that she's at least partly got the pieces together. Which is awful. And humiliating. She may have said she doesn't pity me, but she also doesn't _get_ it, either. I grit my teeth, wait for the condescending words of comfort that are sure to come.

But they don't. "You look a little dizzy. Did you eat breakfast this morning? Here, I'll clean the rest of this up – go sit outside and get some fresh air for a minute."

"I can-"

Madge gives me look that tells me not to argue, and turns on the faucet. "Rinse off and _sit outside a minute_." She points to a bowl on the table that contains a few (slightly shriveled) apples. "And I think you need to eat something, it'll make you feel better."

As much as I'd enjoy arguing with her, the thought of getting away for a few minutes is even more appealing. I pick up an apple as I wonder how she'll handle quartering the remaining whole carcass. On my way out the door, I look at her over my shoulder; she wipes up the blood and sets to jointing a leg without batting an eye. I have to say I'm reluctantly impressed.

Outside, I take a seat on the fence next to Lady's pen. The goat swings her head my way, and her nostrils twitch as she detects the apple. "Nope. It's mine," I tell her when she eases toward my side of the fence. I look down at the wrinkly apple, grateful that Madge told me to take it instead of giving me one of those damned cookies. "Split it with you, though. How's that? You want the core?" Lady sniffs the air again and bleats softly. "You got it." I take a bite of the apple, find it to be a little on the mushy side, try not to think about the reason why I'm sitting out here. I'll finish eating, go back inside, act like nothing is wrong. It's what I've been doing for years now, right?

After a few minutes, Madge appears and she approaches me timidly, rather like the way I approach a wounded animal with very sharp teeth. _Ah, here it comes_. The questions, the conversation, the _pity_ I've been dreading. She leans against the fence next to me, but keeps a respectful distance as she offers a cup of cold water. "Feeling better?" she asks.

_Yes_ and _No_ don't seem to be satisfactory answers to the question, so I shrug and say, "Fresh air helps."

She smiles a tiny bit, nods, and surprises me entirely. "Okay, well, take your time. I took care of everything and cleaned up, so…." And she just walks away.

I stare at the place where she disappears around the corner of the house long after she is gone. No questions. No conversation. No pity. Maybe, just a little, she gets it. Maybe I do owe her something after all. Maybe it's just the benefit of the doubt. And maybe that's why it's been so hard for me all this time.

….

It's a long time before Gale rejoins us. I hope that no one presses him too much about the reason he sat outside alone for so long; I had an inkling as to why he needed to get away, and I sensed that it would be unwise to even _try_ to talk to him about it. When he does return, Gale is mostly taciturn. It takes a while but his brothers and sister eventually get him talking, even laughing a little, and things are almost back to the way they were. I'm relieved, because I can't bear to see him hurting, can't stand to think that he doesn't feel that he's good enough.

In the meantime, Katniss has acquired an adorable and quite resourceful ally in a little girl from District Eleven, and Prim and Mrs. Everdeen are elated when they see her treat Katniss' stings with a handful of leaves. Peeta has not fared so well; he looks weaker and more feverish each time they show him onscreen, and has taken to hiding in a shallow ravine near the stream. _Why doesn't Haymitch send him medicine?_ I think angrily. Surely he's earned enough sponsorship money for at least a small supply. My faith in our victor wavers a little – our plans will be wrecked if he lets Peeta die in the arena. The remaining Career Pack is up and about, too, but they are not quite fully recovered yet, thank goodness.

About halfway through dinner, when the Gamemakers decide that the action has ground to a slow enough pace, they begin to air clips of interview footage between shots of various Tributes in the arena. My appetite vanishes. _Oh God no, not while I'm_ here…. A boy from District One angrily declares that the scrawny little weasel from Twelve will regret picking a fight with his Career-Pack brother. The parents of the slight, red-haired girl smile cautiously as they say that they are still confident that the rest of the Tributes are unprepared for how clever their daughter is. Mr. Mellark's voice cracks as he tells a reporter that he is proud of his son while his wife stands behind him silently with downcast eyes. Prim is tearfully grateful for Peeta's courage. And last, of course, comes my two cents. I set down my fork and cover my eyes, unwilling to watch. Seeing myself on television is embarrassing enough as it is, never mind the show I know I'm about to put on.

I groan when I hear myself gush on about romance and tragedy, how _lucky_ Katniss would be under any other circumstances, that Peeta is _sure_ to survive because, you know, love conquers all. I even say certain words with just a trace of a Capitol accent – I nail it perfectly after having listened to it for so long in my own home. It's sickening, and it's not even to the worst part yet.

When I hear myself sniffle after a long pause, I brace myself. I had to say _something_ to win over the wealthy Capitol sponsors – and maybe win a little more than that. "I just hope they can be together," I say onscreen, "this is the _best_ Hunger Games _ever_."

Even though I still can't find the courage to remove my hands from my face I feel a roomful of people staring at me. How am I ever going to look any of them – anyone in the _district_ – in the eye again? "I'm so sorry," I whisper.

Prim – or at least I think it's Prim, because hers is the voice I hear – pats me gently on the shoulder. "Don't apologize," she says, "_I_ think you just got them _buckets_ of money."

The dinner plate I have balanced on my knees wobbles, and reflex pulls my hands from my eyes. I still can't look at anyone yet, not after they all heard the words I said. I carry my plate to the sink and start cleaning up to give myself something to do. There is nothing I want more than to run out the door, to escape. But wouldn't that be the perfect icing on the cake, to take a share of what little this kind family has and then disappear? I can only imagine what Gale must be thinking. I _knew_ that interview would be be broadcast soon, I shouldn't have stayed. But I was so caught up in the hope that he might walk me back to town again that I didn't think it through very well. It didn't occur to me that he'd be stuck doing it after watching me say "Best Hunger Games ever" on national television while his best friend is fighting for her life. _Good_ _God, love makes you stupid, Margaret Undersee_.

Finally, after I can't stand it any longer, I turn back to the two families in the living room and am surprised to see that things have returned mostly to normal. The kids have gone back to their game and Prim has joined them. Posy pesters her mother for another cookie while Hazelle pointedly ignores her in favor of a quiet conversation with Mrs. Everdeen. Gale watches the scene carefully, one eye on the television as always, waiting for more news. I wait a moment for him to at least glare icily at me, but he is inscrutable as ever.

I feel like I don't even deserve to draw comfort from the fact that no one had become overtly hateful yet. I thank Prim and her mother for their understanding and their hospitality again, and tell them that I have to go to take care of my mother before it gets much later. I wave good-bye to the Hawthornes, and the youngest ones thank me for bringing the box of treats.

And then, unexpectedly, Gale gets up and follows me to the door. Not prodded by his mother. Of his own free will. I seize up for a moment, unsure what to do, expect him to tell me to never come here again.

"It'll be dark by the time you're halfway back," he says flatly.

I fight the urge to check my own pulse. I can hardly believe I've survived this moment. But then, it's a long walk back to town. He'll probably wait to let me have it when there's no one else there to listen. So I just nod timidly and walk outside.

I tiptoe on eggshells in the silence. It's a warm evening, but it feels like it could snow any moment. The verbal lashing that I expect – kind of deserve – does not come. Which is a hundred times worse than if it had. Part of me aches to speak to him, to tell him to remember what I'd told him yesterday, but I'm sure it would be a wasted effort. He may have listened then, but that was before he actually _heard_ the horrible words I'd said. At the very least I want to apologize, but I know that absolutely no good could possibly come from opening my mouth for _any_ reason, apology or otherwise.

He doesn't utter a single syllable, doesn't look at me once the entire way. He is a shadow in the twilight, no more. It is not until I reach down to unlatch the garden gate that he pays me any attention, and though I try hard not to do it I feel like I cower a little under his intense scrutiny.

"Thanks," I say, "Especially since I know you'd rather not be here…" _Don't cry Madge. Don't you _dare_ cry…._

He cocks his head a little, narrows his eyes as they catch a faint touch of the amber from the light up on the porch, and studies me closely. "No. It was – Prim was right, I think." He pauses for a second, and adds, "That was brave." He seems to consider his words carefully, and then nods as if deciding that he actually believes it now that he's said it out loud.

A soft (but still embarrassing) choking noise escaped my throat as the sudden flux of emotion takes my breath away.

"G'night, Madge," he says. And he walks away. But I don't think he knows that he takes a part of me with him.

_Footnote: Coneflower is the common name for Echinacea. It is native to most of the eastern United States, and has lots of medicinal uses. Its efficacy in treating the common cold – the use for which it is most famous – is under continuous debate. However, it is fairly effective as a topical treatment for insect bites, especially in combination with other soothing or anti-inflammatory ingredients. It likes sun, and is easily identifiable by its large purple daisy-like flowers, which have plump cone-shaped centers._


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:**

**Celebration First: Yayyy! Topped 200 reviews! (Special Thanks to GrossGirl18 for doing the honors). Okay, so I know it's not really all that exciting, but I LIVE for reviews and it completely made my day :) Thank you a million times to all my readers; I can't articulate how happy it makes me that you are all following along, and how thrilled I am that people are recommending me! **

**Request Second (as usual): Please let me know what you think. A shorter but still very important chapter. **

I am still reeling from my conversation with my mother when I walk home from school. Actually, it's more like _trudge_ home, because it's beginning to feel like the now-everpresent feeling of exhaustion is finally starting to pull me under. On the bright side, if there is such a thing (I've been doubting lately), it kept me in enough of a haze at school that I didn't _actually see _anyone glaring hatefully at me even though I'm certain lots of people were doing it. Still, this lack of sleep is getting old. To be expected, I suppose, when your world has been flipped upside down so many times you can hardly tell which way is up. _You asked for this_, I remind myself as I stumble through the door. I guess I just didn't know how many worms could be in one can.

_Get over it, Madge_, I think when I turn on the television, _at least you get to lose sleep in a real bed, with a real blanket, after you've eaten a real dinner_. I drop onto the couch and try to keep my eyes open as I hope for news about Katniss and Peeta. Nothing was happening today at lunchtime while I watched the screens in the cafeteria blankly, as my mother's words echoed through my mind. But something is going to happen soon, I know it. Peeta was still struggling to care for his wounded leg, but Katniss had stationed herself near the Career Pack camp to spy.

I replay last night's exchange again, trying to make it real, getting a little closer, not quite understanding why it's so difficult. Once the shock brought on by Gale's words had faded, a strange sense of fortune replaced it; his understanding – _approval_, even – seemed a sign that the stars had aligned. A sign that if the least understanding person I knew could be understanding about my interview, then my mother could be understanding about the fact that I gave away her sister's gold mockingjay pin.

_I know_, she had said after I rushed inside and confessed before my courage withered, _and it was perfect._ After an initial flash of irritation at my father for telling her before I did, I had smiled at this, relieved and amazed that I had escaped these two near-disasters unscathed. A sudden urge had overtaken me to run back outside and down the street, to catch Gale and throw my arms around him before my luck ran out. But I only had a second, maybe two, to debate the risk of pressing that luck any further. Her next words had pulled me back into the room with her. _And it's long past the time I should tell you why_.

I watch the television screen carefully for a moment as the thin red-haired girl dances a practiced, complex path to the Career's supplies, wondering what Katniss will do with the information. She has been doing it for days now, each rare time the cache was left unsupervised (it would seem that Gale was at least partly right about the mines), but this is the first time Katniss will have witnessed it. When she does not immediately take action, I let my eyes close and sink back into memories.

All the little details fill themselves in with absurd precision. The sharp, sudden line of the tear that tore down her cheek as my mother looked down at her lap. The way the fingernails of her right hand dug deep into the palm of her left as if to obscure some other less-concrete kind of pain. Her frail reflection in the dark window beside her unnaturally still rocking chair. The yellow spark of lamplight on the rounded edge of the morphling vial on the nightstand…. On and on, the room constructs itself as if I am sitting in it now, as if I'll never be able to leave it. _It belongs to a volunteer_, she said, _who volunteers for all the wrong reasons_.

I didn't understand what she meant at first. Then I thought of the Career Tributes, who were almost _always_ volunteers. And who did it for the dangling carrot of money and fame, for the greater glory of the Capitol that favors their districts. _That_ is why the Capitol wants a Tribute to volunteer – for them, taking your sister's place simply to save her life is the _wrong_ reason to offer to go to the Games. She saw what I saw in Katniss. I'd smiled and said _she's a mockingjay_.

_So was the girl it came from_, she told me as a shaking hand covered her eyes and tears came faster from under her fingers.

My eyes snap open at the sound of a deafening explosion from the television, but I barely hear it over the memory of my mother's broken whisper.

_I am Maysilee._

….

"_Holy shit_," I say as I start to laugh. My mother cuffs me lightly in the back of my head, because I'm not supposed to be swearing in front of Vick and Posy, but it's obvious she doesn't really mean it. I have a pretty good excuse for once. Katniss just made her tracker-jacker stunt look like child's play. And, as an added bonus, I love being right. _I wish Madge was here…._

Posy interrupts my uncomfortable _dear-God-did-I-really-just-think-_that moment, and I'm glad because that means I won't actually have to deal with it. "Huh?" she says. "What's that mean?"

Vick starts to giggle because he knows perfectly well what it means, while Mom tells my sister to ignore me. Remarkably, Posy does this without much argument, which is surprising because usually once she gets it in her head that she wants something she's pretty relentless. I file away a mental note to pay closer attention the next time Hazelle Hawthorne gets this result from her daughter; it's a trick I need to learn.

"Why'd she do that?" Prim asks, voice twinged with panic, after a few seconds of shocked, pin-drop silence. "She – I thought she was going to steal some of their stuff – she _needed_ to - "

I smile. "No she didn't." I pause long enough to make sure that Katniss is in fact unharmed from the force of the explosion. "She knows how to get everything she needs from the woods," I tell her, "but _they_ don't. She just leveled the field. Maybe tipped the odds in her favor."

"They'll kill her when they find her – "

"They won't find her, Prim. They'll think she's dead when they see the damage. She'll get a head start. And she's smarter than they are." I leave it at that. I don't need to remind her that they were going to kill her _anyway_. Now they might just drag it out a little longer. But I don't want to think about it, so I change the subject. _She will _not_ die_. "Besides, I'll bet she's got the sponsors' attention now."

"I hope so."

So do I. She needs _Capitol_ donors. As Katniss scrambles woozily back into the undergrowth in the little copse of trees where she had been hiding, I think about the collection taken up at the Hob; as much as everyone there wants to help her, no one has much to spare. I've chipped in myself some, as much as I can afford despite how much I hate it. It makes me angry to donate hard-earned coins to the Hunger Games, coins that ought to be feeding my family and Katniss'. But I still choke down the ire and pony up the money. It makes me think of Madge again and her calculated interview, how the pieces fell into place about what she'd said the day we sat on her back porch, that I can't deny that I knew a little bit how she felt. At least I don't have to make my contribution by taking the Capitol's side on national television and pairing up Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark like two posable, hollow-headed dolls from a toy store. Somebody had to do it for the money, I guess, and I'm glad _I_ wasn't backed into that corner by some Capitol reporter.

We all cheer as we watch a replay of the exploding mountain of supplies, and somehow I know exactly what Madge would be doing if she were here with us again – she'd cheer, too, golden curls of hair would fall loose from her ponytail, and her fiery blue eyes would pounce on me as she'd say _I told you so_. We'd scrap it out over whether the District Three kid double-crossed the career pack or was just an idiot, and probably end in a stalemate because (let's be honest) neither of us is the surrendering type, but this time we wouldn't _really_ be arguing. _We aren't really that far apart_. She'd give me that look, the one with the narrowed, glittering eyes and the faint smile that says she knows I'm being difficult on purpose, she doesn't mind, she _admires the fight in me_, but she's _still_ not about to let me win….

And then it hits me. Hard. _I miss her. Hell's teeth, when did _that_ happen?_


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:**

**Wow! Last Chapter caused quite a stir! Thanks for the feedback. And I picked a hell of a spot to wait a long time between updates... sorry guys :P I had this chapter ready to go a few days ago, but decided at the last minute that I didn't like the way it turned out (it seemed really jumbled to me, which is saying something because I still think it's a little jumbled, but at this point I'm calling 'Uncle'). So I started over, did a bunch of cutting and pasting, and will use the scraps in future installments where they fit better. I've got most of my potlines out there now, and I'm finding it harder to keep up with each of them within each chapter - it seemed wayyyy easier in outline form. So I'm doing some juggling :) Thanks for reading!**

Rory is dressed and sitting at the kitchen table when I walk out of the bedroom ready to head to the fence. I feel my blood start to boil at the sight of my brother, so I remind myself that I shouldn't be angry at him and busy myself with inspecting my bag and hunting knife meticulously to keep from looking at him. I feel his eyes on me, and I know he is not going to let this pass.

"What are you doing up so early?" I ask flatly, still refusing to look at him, and hope that he is smart enough to figure out that the correct response is _Because I couldn't sleep_.

There is a split second of a pause, just long enough for me to flirt with a sense of relief that he has decided to fold. "I was going to go with you this morning," he says, his voice perfectly, artificially level like he has practiced it over and over again.

"No you're not," I say nonchalantly as I sheath the knife in the strap of my right boot. It's a struggle to keep my cool, but I'm afraid that if I snap at him and push back too hard he'll just dig in his heels even harder. He is a Hawthorne, after all.

From the corner of my eye, I see him frown a little. Apparently, he thought if he just announced that he was going with me like it was simply a matter of routine (rather than ask if he could) it would slip past me before I thought to argue. But I'm wise to that trick. _Where does he think he learned that one, anyway? _"I thought maybe-"

"No, Rory," I say as gently as I can manage as I step out the door, "not today." I leave before he can press me further, because I know he wants to and I'm not sure how much longer I can keep my temper in check. I shouldn't be angry at him. I guess I'm mostly angry at me.

The quiet in the forest calms me down a little, and the familiar activity of checking and setting snares helps me organize and file away my thoughts. I'll need Rory's help soon enough, but the money I'll be earning at the mine will buy me some time. It's more than just not wanting him to grow up too soon - I've been getting away with poaching for _years_, true, but I'm also keenly aware that that could end at any given moment. I don't want him to be there if it ends badly.

….

I find a newspaper left for me on the kitchen table in the morning. I barely give it any notice at first – it's little more than a gossip rag, and I'm still holding a grudge against my father who has clearly been keeping more secrets from me than I think is fair. Then I notice that big, color pictures of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark take up most of the front page. Out of curiosity, I read the headline underneath the image, and the rush of joy that comes is dizzying when it collides with my fatigue. _Capitol Viewers Call for 'Happily Ever After' Ending._ I have to read the article twice because the first time I do it so fast it doesn't make sense. Ever since Peeta's tragically heroic "rescue," interest in the Star-Crossed lovers from Twelve had been renewed and steadily building, but _this_… this is more perfect than we could have hoped.

Once it finally sinks in, I consider rushing upstairs to tell my mother the good news. She had been far more aware of the recent goings-on than I ever could have imagined. I contain myself, though, because I had found her asleep when I looked in on her first thing this morning and I don't want to disturb her. She may be aware, but she is still fragile; since her guilt-ridden confession, she hasn't had any rest between fits of uncontrollable crying and excruciating headaches. Even with the medicine. The resentment I'd been beginning to feel toward her has softened since then. It's easy to be critical and to think that someone ought to find a way to draw strength from the sadness caused by great loss, until you find out that the sadness was really guilt.

My next thought is to take the paper with me to school because I can hardly contain my excitement – after all that has happened so far, I have to talk to _somebody_ about _something_, and I can reasonably talk about this without going into the revolutionary significance of it. Capitol citizens actually want _both_ Tributes from District Twelve to win the Games – who _wouldn't_ be pleased to hear that? Surely Gale will want to hear anything that betters Katniss' odds of coming home. And I might as well be honest about it. It'll give me an excuse to talk to him since he decided to be nice to me.

It hits me quite suddenly that I've made myself late by becoming so absorbed in the newspaper, but running late in the morning has become specialty of mine. So I snatch a pastry from the breadbox and hold it in my teeth while I hurriedly pull back my hair with a rubber band, hoping that I haven't transferred too much of its glaze into my ponytail. _At least it's clear_, I think as I stuff the newspaper into my backpack and remember Gale's colorful little sister. _Worst case it'll just make me smell like sugar._ I've left the house in worse shape. I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab an apple on my way out the door to eat after I finish my messy pastry, and coach myself to be brave.

….

At my locker, I debate for a moment whether it's really worth the trouble to actually take my textbook to class with me. I'm technically supposed to, but that has never had much bearing on my decision-making process, and my last few classes at the end of the week have been replaced by an appointment with mine officials. Because that's where I'll be going _next_ week, instead of to school.

_Fuck the textbook._

I slam my locker door and am about to head down the hall when I hear my name behind me.

"Gale." The sound of her voice stops me mid-stride even before I think about it. Madge stands behind me, struggling with her backpack. She pulls a crumpled handful of papers from it and looks up at me with a faint smile. "I thought you'd want to see…."

I don't really see what she is showing me because I'm focused on her face. I had seen her yesterday as I passed by the cafeteria during lunchtime, because I can't _not_ see her there, and she had seemed somehow unlike herself. Now, up close, even with her smile she looks worn, hollow, less luminous. It's a weird feeling to be so bothered by this. I like her better bright, on fire.

"The Capitol is _eating up_ this Star-Crossed-Lovers bit. Thank goodness Peeta was the one who started it in the interviews," she whispers conspiratorially, "because Katniss hasn't got a romantic bone in her body and _nobody_ would have believed it." Madge taps the front page. "They want them _both_ to win."

I have to force myself to look at the pictures and the headline, and I'm not sure if it's because I don't want to look at Katniss-and-Peeta or I don't want to stop looking at Madge. Sure enough, it's all there in print. The Katniss I know, slipping further away. The baker's boy I don't _want_ to know, doing for her what I cannot. Even if their romance is a stunt for sponsors, the things that are happening are _real_. But, that glimmer of hope pulls at me for a moment – _it would double her odds of winning…._

"Only one Victor is allowed, Madge," I remind her icily as the glimmer snuffs itself out.

"I know, but _read_ it – they're pushing for a rule change, and they're getting loud about it."

"It's the Hunger Games," I say. "They don't change the rules. If they did, it wouldn't be the Hunger Games."

She leans in a little closer and whispers again, careful not to let a passing teacher hear her. "They don't change the rules for _us_, Gale, but the _Capitol_ is asking for it – so, who knows?" She shrugs lightly, as if to say _anything's possible_.

I'm skeptical, but I can't help but smile a little. When it came down to Us-Against-Them, I'd always thought of her on the _Them_ side. Maybe I was wrong. And surprisingly, this time being wrong doesn't irritate me as much as it usually does. Especially since everything else about my life is miserable at the moment.

….

Gale's smile fades suddenly, and I wonder what I've done wrong until I see that he is looking past me. But it doesn't really make me feel much better, because I'm still pretty sure that I'm at least part of the reason that he slouches a little, looks like he is preparing for the worst. Another Seam boy walks up to him from behind me. I recognize him, he is a classmate of Gale's, but I can't remember his name; he is tall, good-looking but not as handsome as Gale, wearing a mischievous smile. He leans an elbow on Gale's shoulder and looks pointedly at me.

"Who's your new friend, Hawthorne?" he asks with a broad grin. I try to keep up my smile, but it's hard, because I find the entire situation painfully awkward.

Gale rolls his eyes and doesn't look at either of us. "You know who she is, Bristel," comes the flat reply.

"I do?" he asks innocently.

"Yes. You do."

He looks hard at me again, and despite myself I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable. Clearly there is more going on here than I'm privy to. Bristel snaps his fingers with a theatrical gasp of surprise. "That's right!" he says. "She's the one that had you off your rocker after that argument."

Gale finally scowls at his friend. "Bristel, I'm gonna count to five and let you decide whether you want to spend first period picking your teeth out of the back of your skull."

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Still defensive I see."

"I'm already at three."

"Okay, okay," he says as the grin widens and he backs away, "but wait, what was it you said about an argument? A far cry –"

"Five, Bristel!"

Bristel finds this hysterically funny, and takes off down the hallway laughing.

Gale's eyes come back to mine, and I hold my breath as I wait for him to speak. "Apparently word got around about our little tiff in the cafeteria," he says flatly.

I wince at the memory. "I'm sorry. I never intended to upset you."

He shrugs. "Hey, I gave as good as I got. Fair's fair."

I nod down the hall where Bristel disappeared as I bite my lip sheepishly. "Or embarrass you."

"What, Bristel?" he says with a snort. "Bristel's an idiot. He thinks he won something with that, but all he did was make you uncomfortable. Believe me – he's not getting off scot-free."

I blink at him out of pure shock. _Is he being… protective?_ I want so much to believe it, but I know better. _He just thinks his friend is stupid, Madge. Don't get carried away just because he's still being nice to you…._

"Don't worry," he says, mistaking my surprise for concern, "I'm not going to punch him." He gives me a sly little smile. "But I do know his locker combination."

This gets me laughing, and he joins me, and it is perfect. Then the bell chimes, and I remember that I'm at school, I'm supposed to be going to class, and I still haven't unpacked my bag. I remember the newspaper in my hands. I remember that Gale isn't the only person waiting for good news. "Before you go," I say as he starts to turn from me, "can you tell Prim for me?" I explain when he meets my eyes again. "Things are, um, _rough_ at home right now," (_good one, Madge, understatement of the millennium_), "and I don't know if I'll be able to get away for a while, and I don't usually see her here, so…."

He nods. "Okay. I'll tell her." And he walks away. Like there's nothing to it. Again. And the real world – the Games, my father, my mother – it all comes rushing back in again, as if that tiny, perfect moment was the only thing holding it back.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks to everyone for all the reviews, favorites, recommendations, etc. As your reward, I give you… (drumroll)…a faster-than-usual update! Surprise! I would never have made it this far without the support of all my wonderful readers :)**

I wake up in the early morning hours still shaken from the death of Katniss' young ally. As horrifying as it was to watch, I can only imagine what it has done to my friend who was actually there, who failed to save her despite her best efforts.

It hits a little too close to home. We're in our own kind of arena, here in Twelve.

I'm still proud of Katniss though, for the courage she showed. At the end, they didn't air much of the little girl's last moments because Katniss had chosen to take her comfortingly in her arms as the life bled from her. Fallen Tributes are not to be mourned. But Katniss made certain that she would not let her go unnoticed; they _must_ broadcast the moment when a hovercraft retrieves a Tribute's body (to officially confirm a death for the gamblers who bet on the Games), and when they did her tiny figure was covered in wildflowers so that all of Panem would remember that her name was Rue, and that she did not have to die. Surely such a defiant act of compassion has infuriated the Capitol, and that means that there's a little of the Katniss that I knew left in the Girl on Fire. I just hope that this does not break her.

After I clean myself up and change my clothes, I find Rory waiting for me in the kitchen for the second morning in a row. His eyes train on me but he remains still, like a wary fawn expecting an ambush.

I sigh. Part of me admires his persistence, part wishes he'd give up.

"How about today?" he asks as I pick up my bag by the door.

"No, Rory."

"Why not?" Rory demands and I hear the legs of the chair scrape the floor as he rises.

I wheel on him and pin him with my meanest, coldest glare. He freezes, but he doesn't back down, I'll give him that. "I'm _not_ doing this with you right now. Now sit down and shut up before you get everybody out of bed," I snarl.

He lowers his voice to a harsh, irate whisper. "You _are_ doing this. What're you gonna do when you start at the mine next week, and you can't go every day?"

I hope he can't tell that I flinch internally at the mention of my impending career. At the implication that there may come a day that I don't make it home from work. "No, Rory."

I turn to leave again, but he won't let it go and I can hear the cruel sneer in his inflection when he speaks. "You can't just say _no_ and not give me a _good answer_. Just because you're the _oldest_ doesn't make you _Dad_."

To think there was a time when I thought there wasn't a mean bone in his body. Before I can stop myself I snatch up a handful of his shirt and drag him out the door with me so I can give him hell without waking the rest of my family. I toss him roughly into the dirt to get him away from me, because I'm afraid that another moment of physical contact may cause me to actually hurt him. Rory hits the ground with a pained grunt and then scrambles to his feet, but he keeps his distance. Still, he stares hard at me, angry and defiant, and for a heart-wrenching second I see myself in him. Which means that yes, without question, I have failed.

"You listen to me, you thick-skulled little ingrate," I say with alarming restraint, "you want a good answer? Aside from the fact that you're incapable of sitting still for more than five minutes, you are not going to the woods because it's _dangerous_. You seem to have forgotten that poaching is illegal. And maybe it's my fault for never being _explicit_ about what that means, because I didn't want my _eleven-year-old _brother to worry about this kind of thing, but it's classified as stealing. And stealing is punishable by death."

"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, Gale. You sell turkeys to Peacekeeper Cray," he spits.

"And if Cray for some reason decides that he doesn't want to buy turkeys anymore, I get a bullet. Or if some other Peacekeeper changes their mind. Or if some Capitol big-shot visiting for a Reaping or the Games notices. And if you're with me when it happens, _you_ get one too."

In the dim light I see him swallow hard as if truly digesting this for the first time. Nevertheless, he puts on a fair show of courage. "_Dad_ taught _you_ how to trap when you were my age," he points out.

"Dad taught me to trap rabbits _in the meadow_, Rory, and he didn't advertise that he was doing it by trading them. I went into the woods on my own, after he died, because I _didn't have a choice_. I do this so that _you_ get one. When I start at the mine, I'll start getting paid, and I won't _have_ to go _every day_. On top of that I have a few more months of Tesserae coming, so that buys some time, too. Eventually I might _have_ to put you in this position, but I'm going to wait as long as I can because if one of us has to die to keep this family fed I want the odds to be that it's _me_."

Rory glowers at me hatefully, but he stops arguing. There isn't much he can say in response, I guess.

"Go back inside, Rory," I say with a sigh. He waits just long enough to be insolent about it, and stalks silently back into the house. He misses our father – I know because I do, too, particularly because I'm certain that he'd have done a better job with my brother than I clearly have – and this year's Games have been especially frightening for him. But it doesn't ease the sting from the fact that he doesn't appreciate that I only want to keep him safe. Or that he used mention of our father as a weapon. Or that, as hard as I've tried, I haven't filled our father's shoes.

….

After school, I check on my mother and find her napping, and I'm not sure if I am relieved or intensely annoyed by it. I'm glad that she is finally catching up on the rest she needs, and somewhat offended that she isn't yet fit for further conversation. I poke my head into my father's office and find it empty, which is no great surprise but an additional disappointment; I'd seen him only once since I'd spoken with my mother, and then I had made a point of ignoring him rather frostily. He had let that go, I suppose because he felt that he deserved it. Now, I just feel like picking a fight, because I guess he deserves that, too. They both knew that my aunt had secretly taken her place in the last Quarter Quell, and if my mother was _unable_ to tell me, my father _should_ _have_. I'm their daughter- doesn't that count for anything? It does, I try to tell myself, and they did tell me eventually, and a secret like that isn't something you entrust lightly to a child, even if she is your _own_. But the emotion is still too raw to let me see reason. Combine that with an exceptionally awful evening of the Hunger Games last night, ongoing lack of sleep, and the knowledge that another media team is due to arrive tomorrow, and I'm lucky I can see _anything_.

So I spend most of the afternoon on the piano. I start with another nocturne, in the hopes that it might soothe my anger, but try as I might it is a lost cause. So I change to a loud, pounding, intense piece and find it to be infinitely more satisfying. The dissonant, slightly-manic sounds are something that I have never truly appreciated before, and now they are the only thing keeping me from tumbling completely over the edge. A perfect echo of myself, holding me back.

Rose eventually comes down the stairs into the parlor to see what all the commotion is about. She frowns curiously at me, and finally speaks when she realizes that I'm not going to volunteer any explanation. "What on earth is that racket?"

"It's a masterpiece, Rose," I say, rather more snottily than she rightfully deserves. But I'm in a bad mood, dammit, for a good reason.

"Are you sure about that?" she asks sarcastically. "You're going to wake up your mother."

I give her a tight smile. "Don't really care," I say before going right back to my _racket_.

I miss the expression on her face but I see her coming out of the corner of my eye, so I have just enough time to snatch my hands out of the way when she grabs the knob on the fallboard and sends it crashing down. I glare at her incredulously while she folds her arms across her chest and looks at me the way she looks at a stain in the carpet.

"What's wrong with you?" she demands.

I drop my gaze because I can't tell her. And because I've embarrassed myself.

"Whatever it is, if you want to take it out on your music, fine. But you're not a child. There is no reason to be rude to me, or to say something heartless about your mother. Who loves you very much, I might add."

"I'm sorry, Rosie," I say, and I hope she knows how sincerely I mean it. "I didn't mean – I'm upset at Mom. And Dad, too, for that matter."

"Well, that isn't any of my business," she says, "so I'm not going to ask why. But be patient. Your father called earlier to tell me not to let you go anywhere because he was trying to come home a little early. Said he's been meaning to talk to you." Then she wraps her arms around my shoulders as she squeezes me against her. I have to admit it makes me feel a tiny bit better. "I've seen both sides. Parents can be a nightmare, but so are children, especially when they're growing up. Give them a chance."

She has a point, I suppose. I think of the night I threatened to turn my father into Peacekeeper Cray. I think of how it must frighten my father – and my mother since she knows, too – that I am even marginally involved in a potential rebellion. I'm still angry, but I'm a little more willing to be nicer about it.

"Thanks," I say, as I hug her back. I decide to drag myself outside to find a seat on my mother's favorite bench, where I can be quieter about being irate. Without my piano I find it hard to sit still, so I get up and wander a bit, chase our rabbit out of the cabbages, pull up some coneflowers for Prim, trace the outline of my mother's mockingjay pin with a twig in the loose dirt. I just wish I could turn off my mind, if only for a minute. Forget the world for a while. _Where is Gale when I need him?_

…_._

When Katniss yells Peeta Mellark's name, it is startlingly spontaneous. Genuine. I don't think she knows it, but it's clear to see that Claudius Templesmith's booming announcement triggered something more than an unprecedented rule change in the Hunger Games. I know that I would be happy to hear the news if I were the one in the arena, that it would be the right thing to do to help my other District Tribute survive, that I would gladly do it. But the look on her face when the camera closes in on her says that there is more there than a sense of duty. _How much more?_

Prim gasps in surprise, eyes wide and mouth agape as she stares at the screen in disbelief. "They really did it – they changed the rules, just like she said…."

"Madge was right!" says Rory with the first smile I have seen from him all day. It is clearly for Prim though; he has yet to utter a single word in my direction since this morning.

I try to force one myself, but it's difficult. Katniss' odds of survival may have gone from one-in-six to one-in-three, but there are strings attached. My brother is angry at me, and it's only a matter of time before he tattles to Mom, I'm sure of it. I can count on one hand the number of days left before I join the ranks of the walking dead, because the mine kills everyone eventually.

"Do you think she can help him, Mom?" Prim asks her mother.

Mrs. Everdeen mulls over the question for a minute. "He didn't look well the last few times they showed him," she answers in her soft, matter-of-fact healer's tone. "He needs stronger medicine than what she can find in the forest. But she may be able to give him more time."

I suddenly wonder why Peeta hasn't received any parachutes during his time in the arena. I hadn't cared before, I admit, but if they were so enamored with the Star-Crossed Lovers story, wouldn't they want to keep Peeta alive, too? Surely District Twelve had earned the sponsorship funds – if they caused enough of a stir to cause a rule change, which has _never_ happened in the entire history of the Games, they ought to be able to afford medicine. Unless the Gamemakers won't let Haymitch Abernathy send it, because they are saving it for something….

That gnawing sense of guilt creeps back in as I wish for a moment that Madge was here again. I wonder what else she knows - she's been right about most everything so far, I can't deny that, whether I've liked what she was right about or not. But that doesn't explain the guilt. No, _that_ comes from wanting to see the way she'd beam with joy over this turn of events, wishing for the easy way she pulls me out of myself. But then, when I glance back at the television, the guilt begins to crumble a little under the weight of what is unfolding there.

….

When my father gets home, it can only be considered early because I am actually still awake. He finds me curled into a small, sulky ball in an armchair in the parlor with a stack of fresh newspapers. I fold the page in my hands neatly while I think hard about what Rose had said to me earlier, and try to keep my hostility from showing on my face when I look at him.

He chooses a chair across from me, meets my eyes, looks frighteningly sad. "I'm sorry I haven't been here to talk to you."

The distraught look on his face convinces me to forgive him instantly. I wait to see if he has anything more to add, and when he remains contritely silent I ask him evenly, "All these years, why didn't you ever tell me?"

He shakes his head. "She wanted to explain it herself. She thought it ought to be her responsibility, so she asked me not to."

I can't help but frown at this. It takes effort to keep my voice steady, to keep from lashing out at him. "I asked you not to tell her about the pin, because I thought _that_ should be _my_ responsibility, but that didn't stop you, did it?"

"I _didn't_ tell her," he says. "As much as it's painful for her, she knows what's going on, Magpie. She reads newspapers. Watches reports on television sometimes."

My sudden willingness to forgive him is quelled by the use of my embarrassing nickname. "Then why didn't _she_?" I ask.

"Because she was already worried about you. She didn't want another thing added to the list of reasons your life was in danger by making you keep a secret like that." He smiles a little and adds, "And she always said how much you reminded her of her sister, so I think she had a feeling you'd end up picking this fight on your own."

"What if I never picked the fight?" I say.

"Well, then, I think she would have thought you weren't ready to be told yet. But I don't think you'd have _never_ picked the fight."

"You didn't seem happy about it when I did," I point out just for the sake of being argumentative.

He shakes his head again. "I was terrified. I'm still terrified. But I was also pretty sure you'd have found a way to get into this somehow, with or without me, because I don't think you realize it but you're awfully stubborn when you want to be."

I scowl at him, but I can't argue.

"And, even though I'm terrified, I'm proud of you, everything you've done. And so is she."

"I'm still angry."

"I guess you're allowed to be."

I may be an extraordinarily good liar, but my father is an extraordinarily good politician. Somehow, he has managed to get me back on his side. But I'm not quite ready to tell him that.

"Don't be afraid to talk to her, too," he says as he rises from his chair. "Let her get to feeling better first, but she can tell you a lot about these plans of ours. She was there from the beginning. A lot of this wouldn't have happened without her."

_Footnote: What was Madge playing, you ask? Prokofiev's _Sarcasms_ Op. 17. As I always say, look it up and take a listen, but be forewarned – it is not for the faint of heart!_

_Also, for those unfamiliar with piano anatomy, a fallboard is the hinged "lid" that covers a piano's keys when it is not being played. _


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks to everyone again for reading! I want to apologise in advance, as the next update may be a little slower - I have other (admittedly less-fun) obligations requiring my attention at the moment. I will try my hardest to be timely, though.**

**Edit: Myriad embarassing typos have been fixed. So sorry about that. **

This morning, it is my mother that I find waiting for me when I'm ready to leave for the woods. I freeze when I see her, not sure what to expect, dreading the conversation to come. She sits at the kitchen table, much like Rory did the past two days, but she looks tired. Worried. She nudges the chair nearest her out from the table with one foot in invitation. It is understood that I do not have the option to decline. I take the offered seat silently.

"What happened with Rory?" she asks patiently.

The lack of anger in her voice puts me slightly more at ease, but I know it won't really make this any easier. "What did he say?" I ask evenly, hoping for some clue as to how much she already knows.

She shakes her head, shrugs. "Nothing. But, he didn't really have to."

I press the palms of my hands into my eyes, as if I could erase the entire situation by not being able to see it. "He wanted to go with me to the woods. Yesterday and the day before."

She is quiet for a moment. When I look at her again, I see that her features are carefully set, the way they are when she is deeply worried about something and she doesn't want me to know that she is troubled. But I know. I do the same thing. "And you said no."

I nod. "He didn't like it. We got into it pretty good yesterday."

I'm pretty sure that my mother knows that _we got into it_ actually means something closer to _I ripped him a new one_, but she lets that slide. "That explains it then," she says softly.

"He hates me right now," I say, "but I'm fine with that, if it means he's safe."

"I don't fault you for refusing to take him – I'm glad you did," she answers, "and I understand what it means to not care if he hates you for something like this. More than you know. But don't let Rory think that _you_ hate _him_. Make sure he knows that you love him, Gale." With a weak smile she rises from her chair and heads back to the bedroom.

I had known for a long time that that an exchange like this would happen between me and my mother about Rory, where I would have to tell her that he wanted to hunt or that the time had come that I needed to teach him. It was inevitable, even though I hoped that it might not have to happen; I know that she worries about me, and that the last thing she needs or wants is to worry about another one of her children more than she already does. But I had expected it to be more of a battle.

I mull it over as I walk to the fence, and decide that this felt worse.

Once I'm in the forest, I try not to think too hard about how I am here alone, because now it not only makes me think of Katniss, but also my brother. The woods have become uncomfortable again, and it makes me angry because it is the one place where I have truly enjoyed spending my time. In some way or another, whether directly or indirectly, the Capitol has taken even that from me. I hope for a good haul from my lines, so I can spend less time hunting – I'm back to where I started, to the days following the Reaping, and I'll have to work my way back to the ease that I used to have here. I wonder how many times this can happen before I can't find it anymore. I pray that I never find out.

I get a trio each of rabbits and opossums, a raccoon, two muskrats and a grouse from my snares. I am surprised by the bird – it is not typically caught by this type of snare, but I'll still take it any day of the week. It's worth money, whether caught with skill or dumb luck. I can get away with just trapping for today with this much to take to the Hob, and I'm glad that at least something small has turned out the way that I wanted it to. On my way back, I strip a plum tree of almost more fruit than I can carry, just as an added bonus.

At the Hob, there is nothing but talk about the new rule allowing two Victors in the Hunger Games. I can't deny that it's good news, and I try my hardest to play along, to appear happy. But I can't shake the notion that Katniss winning means that I lose. Whatever brings her home safe, I remind myself.

At school I skate through my morning classes with blatant disinterest _(what's the point?)_ and wait for a chance to check the lunchroom televisions for news. When I get it, I pass by the cafeteria and find my eyes drawn to Madge instead. Like they always are, anymore. She chews the end of her pencil while she sits alone and reads a book, her ponytail askew as usual. I still don't quite get what it is that has me so intrigued. Maybe it's that once I'd finally gotten a few of the pieces part, what I had found inside was so unexpected. Like if one day I opened the box containing our monthly Tesserae rations to discover that someone had replaced our allotment of coarse-ground grain with jelly beans. Quite a shock, but once you realize you're not imagining it, it's not an altogether bad thing to have guessed wrong. Except Madge's contents seem far more substantial than jelly beans, which is all the more enticing. More like….

The pitch of the lunchroom chatter changes, making me aware that I have been thinking _way_ too hard about all of this, and a few people get up from their chairs to get a better look at the screens.

Yes. Those. _The reason I am standing here_.

The camera shows Katniss kneeling next to a sickly, debris-covered Peeta Mellark, at the bank of a stream. Concern furrows her brow as she looks him over, and I consider walking into the room so I can get a better view. I think of how she looked last night when they announced the rule change, and wonder what she will look like now that she has found her fellow Tribute. The Tribute who proclaimed his love for her. The Tribute that saved her life.

I decide that I'd rather not know, so I walk away. Simple and easy.

….

The clips shown during the lunchtime hour are usually never live – just highlights from recent Hunger Games events to keep everyone up-to-date – unless something of special interest happens to occur. Today, just that has happened: the Star-Crossed Lovers of Twelve have been reunited. And though I'm elated (first because poor Peeta Mellark will finally get some much-needed help, and second because they are playing this out exactly the way we need them to), it's not something I want to watch during my midday meal. Simply put, Peeta is in bad shape, and Gamemakers do not shy away from gore.

When Katniss begins digging tracker-jacker stingers out of Peeta's arm, I can't help but think of Gale. _Okay, so maybe Peeta isn't exactly a genius – why wouldn't he have pulled them out right away, like Katniss did?_ I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, partly because I think he deserves it and partly to have an argument ready should Gale ever bring it up. _He was likely too addled by the venom to think to do it, and then, by the time the effects wore off, too delirious from fever._ I watch as she does her best to treat the wounds, and I have to say she improvises pretty well given the circumstances, her limited resources, and her apparent lack of interest in all things medical (I can see Prim shaking her head now, saying how she should have paid more attention). The ugly boils left by the wasps look less angry by the time she is done with them.

An awkward, unintentionally-comical debate follows as it becomes clear that the treatment of the worst of Peeta's injuries – the gash in his leg – will require the removal of his pants. Once Katniss comes to terms with this, I find that I have to look away. I was rather proud of myself that I withstood the ordeal with the tracker-jacker wounds, but this… this will be a different kind of horror, I know it. _Please don't let there be maggots_, I think, _there's rice on my plate today_…. When I finally muster the gumption to look, I see that no, there are no maggots, but it doesn't really matter because my appetite vanishes anyway at the sight of the bone-deep, oozing chasm in his thigh. After so many conversations with Katniss' seemingly fearless sister, I find my squeamishness embarrassing. A quick glance around the cafeteria makes me feel a little better, though; I'm hardly the only one pushing my tray away.

_At least they've found each other_, I tell myself as I go back to my homework assignment in an effort to banish the image of Peeta's leg, _and_ _they're allowed to be on the same team_.

The reporters will love this, no doubt, which makes it even better. Because it plays right into our hands. The Capitol _itself_ asked for this, after all, even though anything Anti-Hunger-Games is considered treason. And if Seneca Crane endorsed a rule that changes the very nature of the Games, that makes him a traitor. I have to admire the simple brilliance of it, creating a scenario where the Capitol turns against the very institution that allows it to rule through fear, and thereby giving itself good reason to execute its second most powerful man in office. _Who is set to be succeeded by one of our own_.

The media team is probably arriving right now, as a matter of fact. I have not been looking forward to it, but knowing that they are happily, blindly facilitating the rebel cause makes putting up with them a little easier. Worth it, even.

The afternoon flies by, mostly because I know I'll be going home to a house full of Capitol Slime and wishing I could put it off only seems to make the time move faster. On my walk home, I wonder if we'll be getting the same group of reporters again or if we'll be treated to a new batch of bottom-feeders for the end of the Games.

It turns out that it is a little of both; Rose informs me the moment I walk in the door that Lima Bean has returned for a second assignment, but with a different somewhat-more-obnoxious partner and a new camera crew.

"Great. Now I have to come up with a whole new set of nicknames," I grumble.

"Oh, I've already nicknamed the new girl," she says shortly.

"Oh? What?"

"It isn't something that would be appropriate for me to say aloud," she says.

It kills me not to ask at least what events inspired this impolite name, but I figure that knowing will just make it harder for me to be nice later, and I _have_ to be nice. So I let it go for now.

I check on my mother, and am pleased to see that she is up and about this afternoon. She is even changed out of her nightdress, her hair is pinned up neatly, her blue eyes are alert. She smiles at me when I peek into her room, but her lips twitch as if she is trying not to weep. I soften suddenly, hoping that I have not caused her any more pain, and rush across the room to throw my arms around her. She feels breakable against me, though, and I wonder how long it will be before she begins to crumble again.

….

It's not long after dinner, while we are all gathered around the Everdeens' television, that it happens. She kisses him. It was bound to happen, I suppose, but I guess I didn't expect it to be so… _ambiguous_. I know Katniss well, and I expected it to be forced, uncomfortable, done with a hint of disgust, and above all things _initiated by Peeta Mellark_. Instead, it is Katniss who gives the kiss, and though she appears self-conscious and uncertain, she is not exactly disgusted. For the first time, I actually wonder if it is all an act. Because _she_ seems to be wondering. And let's face it, Katniss has never been a very good actress.

I try not to advertise that I'm feeling a little sick to my stomach.

"Awww…." Prim gives a little sigh as if it is the most adorable thing she has ever seen, and Rory looks at her as if her reaction is the most adorable thing _he_ has ever seen.

Vick makes a gagging noise and wrinkles his nose (girls and kissing are still icky), and Prim swats at him playfully for being a spoil-sport.

I don't look to see my mother's reaction, because I have the unsettling feeling that she is looking to me for mine.

"Oh, look, they sent them food!" says Prim joyfully. "The sponsors must be loving this!"

A silver parachute floats gently down onto the rocks near the cave where the Star-Crossed Lovers have taken shelter. I think of the donations I've been making to the collection at the Hob. _I hope none of my money paid for that_. Then I remind myself that it's one more thing helping keep her alive. I'm not allowed to not like it.

Katniss retrieves the gift and finds a pot of steaming broth, which she carries back into the cave. She begins the arduous task of trying to coax Peeta to eat, and a fair amount of arguing ensues. This rouses Prim's and Mrs. Everdeen's concerns, because if he has no appetite – especially after going so long without a meal – it means that he is deathly ill. Finally, Katniss resorts to kissing him again, which makes him a little more compliant. And then, after a few spoonfuls of broth, she does it a third time.

_How much of this do I have to watch?_

No sooner than the thought crosses my mind, the screen flickers, dies, lights up for a few seconds, and dies again. Never have I been so grateful for our inadequate, poorly-maintained power grid.

….

My mother does remarkably well for the evening; she lasts through dinner with our media team and even watches a little of the Games with us without incident. It helps immensely that the most important event of the day was not a violent death, but Peeta's and Katniss' first kiss. While everyone gossips about it as we sit around the television, I wonder what Gale must think of this. _He disapproves, of course_. He is protective of Katniss. But could he also be jealous? He had never seemed interested in Katniss in that way, nor she in him (which had always baffled me), but I was hardly there for all of their friendship. _Could it just be that I'm jealous? _

After enduring more than enough time of Lima Bean's annoying mannerisms, and his partner Livia's snooty comments (I'm beginning to guess at Rose's choice of nicknames) she excuses herself, explaining that she has been ill of late and is feeling rather tired. I can't blame her, but I find it a little unfair that I don't have a good excuse to escape myself. I regret mentioning that I'd already finished my homework earlier in the afternoon. Putting up with them is exhausting, especially when they aren't telling us anything of value at the moment.

Eventually, I offer to start a pot of tea to share just to get myself away from them for few minutes. I feel bad leaving my father alone with them, but not bad enough to go back into the parlor and listen for the teapot to whistle. Instead, I take my time setting cups and saucers on the tray, getting honey from the pantry, slicing a lemon. Tasks that usually take me less than a minute or two. I listen to them talk in the next room, and admire my father's patience. I'm learning it myself, but there are days when it seems an insurmountable task.

I take everything back to the parlor, feeling refreshed from my break until Livia takes a sip from her teacup and makes a face. "You call this tea?" she asks, as if I had given her a cup of mud by mistake.

I bite my tongue and remind myself to be gracious. "Would you like something different?" I ask as I get up from my seat.

She waves her hand at me. "No. I'll just put more honey in it," she says as she reaches for the dipper. "I don't want to wait. At home I can just push a button, and it's _there_."

"It's quite different," says Lima Bean, "takes some getting used to." He is annoying, but at least he's not usually rude _on purpose_. I reluctantly appreciate his upside-down, Capitol attempt at politeness.

We are thankfully interrupted by the sound of knocking at the back door. "I'll get it," I offer, eager to get away again. _So much for feeling refreshed_. "I'm already up." Rose probably forgot something when she left in a huff after making dinner. _ I hope she's not coming back to turn in her resignation…._

I open the door to what is perhaps the greatest shock of my short life. It's not Rose. It's Gale.

He straightens himself from where he was leaning against the rail, and his pretty gray eyes meet mine. "Power's out early," he says. "Wanna go for a walk?"

_Footnote: I feel obligated to insert a bit of an explaination regarding Gale's success as a trapper. If 'my' Gale doesn't quite seem to get the rate of return that S.C. implies in THG, it is because I've written his experiences in the woods to be more realistic. 'Today's' haul would be excellent. An especially skilled trapper may get 1 catch for every 10 snares or so, and even then not consistently. Just in case anyone was wondering. _


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note**

**Sorry for the delay…. That was especially cruel of me. However, thank you all for your kind restraint – I expected more outrage ;) Have fun reading, and as always thank you for reviewing!**

I can hardly believe it. For a split second the shock threatens to overtake me. _Are you sure?_ I almost ask him.

"Ohmygodyes." The words smear together as – all-consuming, unrequited love notwithstanding – I swoon a little from sheer gratitude. I've been rescued. His mouth twists in the most adorable way as if he is stuck between confusion and laughter at my reaction, and I swoon all over again. Yes, rescued, and by the man of my dreams, no less.

I almost step outside without thinking and suddenly remember that there are other people inside who might wonder where I went. Like my father. I stop and hold up my hands as if to freeze Gale in place. "Wait out here a minute."

He looks suddenly offended that I explicitly said that he should wait outside rather than invite him in, and I panic. "No! I didn't – it's not like that! I have a houseful of Capitol reporters," I hiss.

"Oh," he says, and leans back against the porch railing as if satisfied by this explanation and content to remain here if it means avoiding my houseguests.

"I'll be right back. You have no idea how badly I want to get out of here right now."

This makes him smile a little again, so I close the door partway and hide behind it for a moment, take a deep breath, regain my composure. Because what I really want to do is squeal for joy and jump up and down. But that would be horrifically embarrassing, and since I'm feeling a touch dizzy, I'd probably just hurt myself.

I rush back into the parlor, and make a point to bring a hint of the panic with me. As I flit around the room collecting a notebook and a pen from the den and a lightweight jacket from the rack by the door, I explain that I was supposed to have been working on a group project for science class tonight and, _goodness_, I just plain _forgot_ since all my other homework was done early and there was all the _excitement_ with the new media team! I tell my father that I should have been at Elaine Poole's house almost an _hour_ ago, and she came to get me herself because I was so _late_ and she was beginning to wonder. He offers whispered condolences, and I laugh and tell him that the teacher assigned the groups; my choice of alibi was based on the fact that I know he can't stand the Pooles, and would therefore be disinclined to verify my whereabouts because that would mean he'd have to engage in conversation with one or more of them.

After a few polite-but-hurried goodbyes, I dash out the back door and wave for Gale to make a quick getaway with me. "Hurry up," I tell him, "I told Dad I'm doing some group homework tonight."

He frowns as he trots up next to me. "Ashamed to tell him who you're with?" he growls.

I roll my eyes. "Don't be obtuse," I snap, my patience worn thin by hours of exercise, "we've _had_ this conversation. The truth wouldn't go over very well because you're a _boy_, Gale, not because you're _you_."

"You're not a _kid_," he says, less offended but still a bit surprised that my father might be so strict. "He doesn't let you…?" He trails off, presumably because of the implication that this might be construed as more than just an evening stroll. Is it? Or did he just suddenly become afraid that I might mistakenly interpret it that way?

"It really hasn't come up until now," I say flatly, "but I took a wild guess and assumed that any run-of-the-mill father might react poorly if his daughter came out and said 'Hey, Dad, I'm going for a little jaunt with an older boy, in the dark, alone.'" We turn the corner at the end of the street, so I slow down and turn to face him fully. "So please, stop being difficult and give me a little credit. I just _lied_. To my _father_. Because I didn't want to have a debate in front of a roomful of people, and I wanted to come with you." I avoid the question altogether about whether I ought to consider this a _date_. I don't really want to hear the answer, because I'm pretty sure I know what it is; he likely only wants to get away from the events of today's Hunger Games. But not hearing it out loud will make it easier to pretend for a while.

He studies me carefully for a few seconds, and I force myself to stand my ground under his intense stare. His handsome features are unreadable as usual, until a subtle smile pulls at his lips. "I'll take that," he says.

We start walking again, and I let him take the lead. After a moment he leans toward me and asks, "So, what would he think we were doing?" My heart leaps past my throat and into some very cramped space behind my eyes at the thrill of it, but his mischievous tone makes it clear that he says this entirely in jest.

I brace one hand against his arm and shove him playfully. "Use your imagination," I say as I start to laugh, "I'm sure you've got one somewhere in that thick skull of yours." He lets his head fall back as he laughs with me, and I hadn't thought it possible but it makes him even more beautiful. _Oh, if only he meant that_. But then, I don't know who I'm kidding. I'm not really that kind of girl. _But he makes me wish I was_.

…

_Do I ever_, I think, which is immediately followed by _where did that come from? _Truthfully, I know exactly where it came from. I'm just not accustomed to the stirring of emotion that comes with it. It hadn't meant much when she was just another pretty girl. The sudden compulsion to say something flirtatious feels strange, not because it is anything new to me but because once I say it, I realize that her reaction actually matters. And I don't really appreciate how much I wanted the reaction she gives me until I get it – she smiles, laughs, plays along… flirts back?

"How long do you have before you need to go home?" I ask.

Madge shrugs, and the smile creeps back to her lips. "I'd like to be late enough that the media team is already in bed by the time I get back," she says. "Dad said he's going back to work for another late night, and Mom is doing better so I don't have to worry about her too much. So I guess I've got plenty of time."

"Perfect," I say. "It wouldn't do much good to get all the way there and have to turn around and come right back."

"Where are we going?" she asks curiously.

I look at her sidelong. "I thought we'd visit Lady, you know, make nice and all."

Her blue eyes widen, and I can tell she's trying desperately to decipher what the most honest but least offensive response might be. After a moment, she says, "I can't tell if you're serious or not."

I try to hold it in, make her believe that I actually meant it, but the concern that etches her face is too much for me and I start to chuckle. Her eyes narrow at me, but her perfect lips curve into a smile. "What?" I say as innocently as I can manage, which is admittedly not very. "You're wearing pants today."

"You'd love to see that, wouldn't you?" she says dryly.

"Fine then," I say as I look upward to judge what little is left of the fading light in the sky. "Change of plans."

"To what?"

"Don't get too excited," I warn. "It's not that spectacular." Her eagerness causes my confidence to ebb a bit; certainly she will only be disappointed. Even after the power outage had cut off the Games I still felt the need to escape, so once I had helped my mother shepherd my brothers and sister back home, I left. I had every intention of going to the meadow, as has become my habit, but it wasn't until I was halfway to town that I realized that I passed it by. I hadn't felt any particular desire to turn around, and it wasn't until I unlatched the Undersee's garden gate that I realized why. And I had no idea what I would do with her until Madge opened the door. That was when the memory of the first night walking her back to town came rushing back in, the way her eyes lit up in the darkness…. Each time she speaks to me, looks at me, it gets easier and easier to forget that she the most privileged girl in the district. That what little I have (which isn't even _really mine_) to offer her will be a letdown. Always. _Why am I doing this to myself?_

But then, when she rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head, I wonder if maybe she won't be let down. She has every reason to not want to be here with me right now, had any number of reasonable excuses to decline my invitation, but here she is. Maybe….

Madge is quiet as we walk along the road that leads back to the Seam, but the silence between us is not awkward; it is simply as if neither of us feels the need to fill the space with unnecessary chatter. It is enough not to be alone. By the time we reach the first row of ramshackle houses we have lost the last of the sunset twilight, which is what I'd hoped for. I tell her to watch where she's going, because the moon is darker tonight and the road isn't in the best of shape. She keeps her eyes carefully downcast, and it gives me a chance to look at her as we move between the shadows. Though she is paying close attention to where she places her feet, I can tell the wheels are turning, trying to figure what I'm up to. Even in the darkness she is made of sunlight. I wonder again what her skin feels like, or the loose curls at the end of her ponytail, or the pink arc of her lips; I force myself to look away, in case I find myself any more tempted to do something stupid than I already am….

At the edge of the meadow, I beckon for her to follow me as I walk ahead. "Be careful," I tell her, "the ground isn't even." I choose a fairly level place in the grass and watch her pick her way carefully toward me. "I thought you'd like a chance to look," I say as I point upward, "when you can take your time and you don't have to worry about being somewhere."

She follows my hand toward the sky. Her lips form a soft _O_ as she takes in the view, then melt slowly into a smile. "You brought me all the way out here just so I could see the stars again?" she says, and I feel a twinge of regret because I can't tell of she is awestruck or annoyed. Then her eyes meet mine, and I see that the smile is not condescending or cruel. She is elated. _Elated_. "How could you ever say this wouldn't be spectacular?" She looks up again, turns in a slow circle, beams a little brighter.

"I see it all the time," I say.

She shakes her head. "Maybe so, but I can see, what, eight whole stars in town? So this is pretty spectacular, Gale." She frowns a little. "Which direction am I facing? I'm all turned around. And there's so much up there I can't tell what I can usually see."

"Well, there's the Bear," I say, pointing upward and to her left, "it's one of the easiest to find, so start there."

She turns to look, but I can tell she is still overwhelmed. "I – I don't see it."

"Up more. See? Four bright ones in a square. Three more in a line from the top corner."

She is very still and quiet for a moment; she is trying hard to follow me. "I see it," she says at last with confidence. "What else is there?" she asks eagerly.

I have to say that I am probably the last person who ought to be teaching a lesson on astronomy, but I can pick out most of the easier constellations, and her enthusiasm is contagious. They teach us a handful at school, and my father had shown me more when I was young. And then there's all the time I've spent here staring at the night sky, while I just wanted to be alone. And in this moment, I'm glad I am not. "There's all kinds of things," I say. "Here, look, above the bear's body, there's a line in an _S_." I trace the pattern with one finger. "All the way over to… there. That's the Snake. See? His head is the diamond."

"There?" she asks, pointing to something that I am fairly certain does not belong to _any_ constellation, much less the one I'm actually trying to show her.

"No. I don't think you followed the line far enough."

"There? Because that doesn't look like –"

"Because it isn't," I say. "Madge, you need to _look_ where I'm _pointing_."

….

Gale steps forward and takes me by the shoulders, spins me around and pulls me back toward him. To my everlasting disappointment, there is absolutely nothing romantic about the way he does this. His actions are borne of frustration, though at least he is gentle when he touches me. He reaches one arm skyward over my right shoulder, just to the side of my face so I can better judge the angle and direction. "Here," he says with forced patience as he indicates the pattern that he wants me to see. It doesn't do much good; the stars above us swirl dizzyingly because the only thing that draws my focus is the warmth of him close to me, the weight of his hand on my shoulder.

"I see it now," I lie. The moon could fall out of the sky right this very second and I'd probably miss the whole thing.

His hand disappears from my view, his fingers slip off my shoulder, and I feel him step away from me. _Say something,_ I think furiously. Even if it didn't mean anything, having him so close to me was exhilarating. "Show me the other ones," I say.

"Sit down first," he answers, "you're looking a little wobbly. It's hard to look straight up for so long while you're standing. I don't want to explain what happened if you fall over and break something."

_Looking at the sky doesn't have a damn thing to do with it_, I think privately while I hope the dim light hides the blush that warms my face. I toss my notebook in the grass and sit down, expecting him to choose a spot as far from me as possible. Gale waits until I am settled, and sits next to me instead, close enough to almost touch, but not quite. "Okay," he says, "if you look up above the Bear, kind of inside the arc of the Snake, that's the Little Bear. See it? It's the same but smaller, and upside down."

I try hard to find what he is pointing at again; as near as I can tell, there are Snakes all over the sky, so the specific one to which he refers doesn't give me any frame of reference. It takes me a minute, but I get there. Or at least I think I do. "It looks like a raccoon to me," I comment.

He looks at me, then upward again, back at me. He seems vaguely surprised by this.

I suspect that I know what he is thinking. "Yes, Gale, I know what a raccoon is."

"I… didn't say that," he offers diplomatically. "I just… I guess you're right. It kind of does look more like a raccoon." Then he surprises me entirely by shifting onto one hip and leaning toward me, just behind my shoulder again, close enough that I feel his warmth at my back. I try to remind myself to breathe as he points out a Hawk, a Goose, a King, his voice low and soft in my ear. Then he describes an Archer and it makes me smile.

"Like Katniss," I say. _Perhaps it's a good omen. _

I sense him tense a bit behind me, uneasy with the memories and worry it must have stirred in him. "Yeah." He pauses for a moment. "You can only see it this time of year."

Horrified that I may have destroyed this perfect moment, and worse caused him undue pain, I try to change the subject a little. "What can you see in the other seasons?" Surely he does not want to go back to dwelling on the Games. That is, after all, the reason we're here.

"Some you can see all year. But a few months ago, there was a Lion and a Girl. Soon, in the fall, you'll be able to see the Horse. In the winter, a Rabbit, and…" he stops as if thinking hard about it, then finishes slowly, "a Hunter, and a Princess."

Something about the way he says this quickens my pulse. I crane my neck to look at him, and my breath catches in my throat as I see how close he actually is to me; the end of my nose nearly brushes his cheek. I force myself to speak, hoping to keep him from noticing that I'm suddenly even more flustered than before. "How can you see all that up there?" I manage. "It's beautiful, but all I can see is a mess of stars."

I feel him shrug, and though he doesn't look at me directly, he does not withdraw. _ Could he be enjoying this closeness? _"Practice. Some of them are still hard for me to find. You sit here and watch the stars come out enough times, it gets easier. I come here all the time. You know, to get away from everything."

I let my head fall to one side as I study him carefully for a few seconds, and begin to think that I understand him a little more. "This is your music," I say. When his silver gaze settles on me curiously, I explain. "This for you is what my piano is for me, I think. Lock the world in a box for a while so there's just… _this_."

He considers this for a few seconds, then nods slowly. "This is my music." Somehow, I understand this to be an intimate revelation. I find that I am suddenly afraid to speak, to move, afraid that I might inspire him to leave, vanish into the shadows here that suit him so well. I am amazed that such a powerful and aloof creature would alight here with me and _remain_, unhooded and unjessed. More than anything I want to continue to keep him near. _Nearer_, even; one less inch between us and…. _God, how can I _crave_ something I've never even had?_

He smiles faintly and leans back, but not to get away from me, more to look up at the blanket of stars above us again. So I do the same, and stop asking questions for now I so can just enjoy the view, and the night sounds, and the company. After a few minutes I hear him laugh quietly and at once I am intensely self conscious that his eyes are upon me again.

"What?" I ask.

"You're finally beginning to stop _thinking_ so damn hard about it." He folds his arms behind his head and lies back in the grass. "Quit trying so hard. Would you expect me to be able to learn to play the piano in a day?"

"No."

"So, just watch for a while."

I lean back and brace myself on both hands and try to take in the sky. He's right – the view is better when I'm not so worried about picking out the constellations that come so easily to him. But I still enjoyed it more when he was right at my side, making me forget to breathe. _ Such a beautiful distraction. _I can't help but wonder at this new show of kindness, and even more at his openness with me (or at least what qualifies for openness with someone like Gale).

"Relax, Madge," I hear him say from beside me. "Your neck is going to hurt from sitting like that."

I've been sorely tempted to lie on my back like he did, because it's becoming uncomfortable to sit. And because he is there beside me. But the thought of lying completely down in the long grass in the dark, where any number of crawly things could be lurking, deterred me. But I'll be damned if I let him know that. So I take a deep breath and flop down next to him, reminding myself that I will probably _never_ get this chance again. It turns out that it's worth it – when my shoulder brushes against his arm, I forget that there is anything out here but the two of us.

….

I am still surprised by the ease between us, her willingness to stay so close, my willingness to let her. After a few minutes, she snickers softly while she winds a long blade of grass around one finger and asks (because she's been _dying_ to know) what I did to Bristel the other day. I describe the creative use of a bucket of water and a length of wire, which is admittedly not my most _original_ work, but the results were especially satisfying. This makes her laugh, and I find that the sound of it makes me want to make her do it again. I remember how she smiled the day I had commented on her piano performance, so I ask if she has a song for _this_, the stars in the night sky, like she had a song for autumn. She bites her lip through a shy smile, as if I've somehow read her mind, and says that she actually has two or three. One hand pauses with the grass and her fingers dance in the air as if playing the notes.

The words between us become as comfortable as the silence. She asks after my family, and I give her a vague answer because I don't feel like thinking about Rory. Madge seems to sense that it's a sensitive subject, but she does not press and I deeply appreciate her intuition. Because she is kind enough to inquire about mine, I ask about her family and she is equally evasive. She remarks that she had often wished that she had a brother or sister, and that it's probably why she likes Posy so well. I remind her that I told her she could keep my sister, and the offer is still on the table; she swats my arm and tells me I'm awful, and we both laugh again.

At long last, after the lulls in our conversation become longer, she asks "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Well, you kind of forced the issue," I deadpan. But it's true. She earned it.

She shakes her head and smiles, and looks back up at the sky.

After a while I see her yawn, and then a little later her hands become still with the blade of grass. I don't disturb her until I see her eyelids become heavy, and I decide to get her to her feet before we both fall asleep and I end up with a lot of awkward explaining to do.

"Hey," I say quietly, "let's get you home before you completely nod off."

She sits up drowsily, rubs her eyes. "Yes. Because I'm close."

I take her hands and help pull her to her feet, and even though it takes her less than a second to steady herself I struggle to let go. I remind her to take her _props_ (notebook and pen) just in case there are any questions when she gets home. Even though I set a leisurely pace, the walk back to town doesn't take nearly long enough. I want more time to take this all apart, to figure it out, see how _she_ puts it back together.

When we reach her home, all its windows are dark. _She got her wish_, I think. And I am relived, because there will be no one greeting her at the door. Though it would have been significantly less awkward than if I had walked her back home at, say, _dawn_, it would still would have been uncomfortable explaining what I was doing here with her when she was supposed to have been doing homework and it is now past midnight.

She stops suddenly halfway up the garden path and turns to face me squarely. "Thank you for bringing me with you," she says. "I know you just wanted to get away from… everything on television today, but this was probably the nicest thing anybody's done for me in a long time."

I get the feeling that she is fishing for some clue as to how to act, on what to do with tonight. _She wants to know how _I_ put it back together_. My eyes drift upward as if the right words for what is happening might appear in the sky. _No luck_.

I hesitate too long and she moves to walk away. But I don't want to let this get away from me, and before I can think about it I reach for her hand and pull her close. When she looks up at me her eyes are wide and expectant, her lips barely parted around a shallow, stunned breath. I lose myself a little, again, because it _always_ happens that way, and I let my free hand come to the side of her face as I lean into her. My mouth just brushes her skin as I speak quietly into her ear. "Everything that happened today is why I left home, but it isn't the reason I came _here_." I rest my forehead against hers for a moment, and I feel her fingertips touch the back of my hand.

Then I step back from her, to put a little distance between us so I can think a little clearer. I don't want to be so close to pushing too far, to doing something that might make her think that she is only a distraction. _She isn't just another pretty girl_. Madge smiles faintly at me, so slight that I almost miss it, and it nearly pulls me back in. So I force myself to walk away. Because each time it gets more difficult.

As I head back to the Seam, I think of the twinge of resentment I felt at the memory of Katniss earlier, for interrupting something that was beginning to be uncomplicated. Although, I can't deny that the guilt isn't what it used to be. I'm glad that she's alive, relatively safe, has a good chance at coming home. Still, I've lost something along the way. But that doesn't mean I'm in the red.

_Footnotes:_

_The constellations mentioned are real – I renamed them to match what I think people in District Twelve might call them colloquially. They are (in order of appearance in this chapter) Ursa Major, Draco, Ursa Minor, Aquila, Cygnus, Cepheus, Sagittarius, Leo, Virgo, Pegasus, Lepus, Orion, and Andromeda. The seasons with which they are associated are also real. Interestingly, Orion (the Hunter) and Andromeda (the Princess) can actually be seen at the same time during the winter. Orion and Sagittarius (the Archer) can never be seen at the same time. This is 100% fact; I'm not making this up. _

_And as an aside to PPerfect - Yep. :)_

_To clarify the analogy that Madge makes about Gale in the second part of her narration: "Unhooded and Unjessed" is a reference to falconry, and though she has likely never seen it, I imagine she has come across it in books, as she mentioned in previous chapters that she is well-read. In my mind, I liken Gale to a bird of prey. A hood is literally that – a hood placed over the bird's head to prevent distraction – and jesses are leather straps used to tether the bird's feet to the falconer's glove; even well-trained raptors are quite willfull, so if one sticks around of its own free will, it's a big deal. _

_And just in case the last line doesn't make sense, because "In the red" is an expression not heard very often anymore (at least I don't think so, where I'm from) – it means "in the negative."_


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:**

**I guess I'm back to apologizing with every update, because timeliness continues to be a challenge. I had honestly hoped to have this done last week, but I scrapped all but a couple paragraphs of my first draft and started over because it felt clumsy with the rest of the story. So, sorry for the long delay. And for a less fun chapter – but again, important things are happening that cannot be left out. So think of it as "substantial filler" **

**Also…. Thank you again to everyone who continues to recommend me, and especially to those who review. Hit the 300 mark – although I lost track of who got there first this time! **

I am a wreck. All night. All morning. Up, down, left and center, a bona-fide mess. For the few intermittent minutes that I do manage to doze off while I toss and turn in bed, I get my wish and find it deeply unsatisfying. Our last seconds together replay in a lucid dream, all in perfect detail, except that when he leans into me instead of whispering into my ear, his lips kiss mine. Gentle at first, then more passionate as we twist into each other…and this is when I wake up, legs tangled in the bedsheets, hands white-knuckled fists in a pillow, and realize that what had felt so vividly lifelike only seconds ago is a poor substitute for the real thing. And in reality, there wasn't even a kiss, just closeness, a light touch. Then, while I lie there and wonder if I'll ever sleep again, I curl my arms tightly around my waist and wish they were _his_ arms. _If he could see me now_, I think, wondering if he is as worked up as I am. Is he wide awake right now, struggling to catch his breath, wondering what I taste like? Eventually I drift halfway to sleep again, only to reawaken at the same place, dizzy with _want_.

I get out of bed when I see light outside my window because I know I won't be able to rest anyway. The prospect of going to school in a few hours is exciting and terrifying at the same time. I so desperately want to see him again, but I haven't the slightest clue as to what to do when it happens. Do I deliberately seek him out? Or do I wait for him to come to me instead? What do I say to him? Do I make any mention of what happened between us last night, or do I let it go as if it were nothing out of the ordinary? _What_ happened, anyway? Nothing in the literal sense, but there was so much more than that….

After it takes me three tries to button my shirt properly I decide firmly that the only option is to go to him directly and ask what he had specifically meant when he whispered to me before he left. What was his intention? Because it is important to me – and only fair – that I know where I stand. I walk out of my room and down the hall like I've swallowed a lit match, but by the time I get to the bottom of the stairs it burns itself out. That would be nothing short of disastrous, cornering him and demanding an answer. How could I ever think that was a good idea? If there was a single thing that would inspire him to take flight, _that_ would be it. Then, as I walk through the parlor on the way to the kitchen, I realize that I've been in such a tizzy that I completely forgot to check on my mother, which is always the first thing I do when I get up. Clearly I am not in any shape to be taking any kind of action. Best to let this run its course, follow his lead, wait for him to give me some direction. And attempt to function like a normal person in the meantime.

I top the stairs again and wrack my brain to remember why I am here _(Oh, right, Mom!)_ while I hope that I've crossed his mind at least once this morning. I doubt that I've had the same effect on him that he has had on me, but… well, one can dream.

….

The only thing that gets me through my last day of school is, strangely enough, the one thing I have been trying so hard to ignore. While I sit at a table and fill out my paperwork, next to a row of a dozen other Seam-born classmates, I think of Rory and remind myself that I am doing this for him. If it weren't for my family, I would seriously consider taking my chances at making a living exclusively by hunting. Today, as it is all beginning to actually happen, I can no longer ignore the dread that turns my stomach and presses against my chest like an invisible, immovable weight. I may have escaped my last Reaping Day, but the odds still aren't exactly in my favor; for those of us from the Seam, survival is a crapshoot even after we're too old for the Hunger Games. I learned that lesson at a young age, and painfully. No one looks forward to working the mines – the conditions are miserable, the hours are long, the work is hard – but for some of us it represents a specific and terrifying kind of hell. But I will never admit that gnawing fear aloud, never let that weakness show. That fear makes me angry, though, and that's the thing that keeps me going.

I remind myself that I am signing my life away for the good of two brothers and a sister that I love ferociously. The things I'm giving up aren't as important as what they need. This isn't about me.

It makes me think of Madge, what I'm giving up with her, how strange it feels that it matters to me. She hadn't withdrawn from me last night, hadn't pushed me away. For a second, it had seemed that she might actually look at me the way I look at her. And truthfully, the way I look at her isn't the same as it used to be. In the moment, when she was so willingly close to me, it had seemed that something might be possible. But in the cold light of day, when I passed by the cafeteria for the last time to catch sight of her, I cannot deny that those chances were nothing more than imaginary. She is beyond my reach, and I'll fall by the wayside. Nothing has changed, except that now I actually _miss_ her. I regret having sought her out last night. This would have been easier without having been so close to… whatever it was that I narrowly avoided.

As I flip my papers over and slide them across the table to the secretary sitting on the other side of it, I remind myself that I'll still get one day a week in the woods. That the pittance of a salary I'll earn is still more than I get for going to school. That Madge had told me that she admires the fight in me, and if they can change the rules for the _Hunger Games_, then perhaps there is more to be done in the mines than backbreaking labor….

The secretary checks my application – a middle-aged town woman who will never have to step foot in the mine – and tells me that it will me a few minutes before I'm taken to speak with one of the mine managers. She is distant, unapologetic, indifferent; I am not _her_ son, after all. It makes me angry that the world we live in has made her this way – unconcerned with the fates of all of us sitting in front of her, and the next group waiting behind us in the other room, and the next after that, simply because she is so grateful that it isn't _her_ family in this position. I think of Madge again and her fire on the day of the bloodbath . _ It makes me feel like they are winning_. She looks at me with nothing more than a faint air of superiority as she gets up from her chair, but I just smile sweetly at her, because all I can think is _I'm going to make all your lives a living hell_.

….

I don't see Gale at school, and part of me is relieved that I get a little more time to collect myself while the other part is crushed that I have to wait. I'm not surprised; it is the last day of school for everyone in their final year, and for everyone from the Seam that means that they go to the mine on Monday, so I expect that he is busy with industry recruiters. It always seemed such a sad joke to me, the way they try to make it appear as if there is really an application and selection process when it's actually little more than a roll-call of everyone old enough to work the mine with nowhere else to go. This time, it's heartbreaking and infuriating because someone dear to me is jumping through those hoops to earn a living in a place everyone avoids if they have any other choice. My father has been able to make miniscule changes in the conditions there over the years, but not much, and the only way he could convince the Capitol to allow it was to point out that killing your employees faster than you can replace them is _inefficient_. This _is what I'm fighting for_, I tell myself. It would be different if he were choosing to work there, and if weren't so dangerous. But Gale doesn't get to choose with the way things work here in Twelve, and the Capitol doesn't care if anyone is safe.

When I get home, I am glad to find that the reporters are still gone for the day; I feel sorry for whomever they are terrorizing right now, but I appreciate the break and it puts Rose in a much better mood. She is washing the windows with enthusiasm in the parlor, and it reminds me that I am still in her debt.

"I suppose I should be doing that," I say, "since I still owe you." Leaving someone stranded with a bunch of Capitol idiots isn't something you don't repay.

"I like the windows," she says sunnily, "but your knees are younger than mine. You can get the kitchen floor next time it needs done."

I groan inwardly, but I suppose it's more than fair for what she does for us. "Okay," I agree.

"Your mother is up and about again," she says. "It's been a relatively good year for her so far, hasn't it? She said to send you up when you got here."

Mention of my mother brings a twinge of apprehension strong enough to banish all the anxiety I've been feeling over Gale, at least for now. She doesn't usually ask to see me alone as soon as I come home - is she finally feeling well enough to want to talk to me again? My father had told me that I ought to speak with her, but it has been hard to find the courage. Only days ago she had lapsed into hysterical tears again after admitting that her sister had taken her place in the Games. As much as I want to know her place in all of this, it gets harder and harder to watch her break down. After I nudge her bedroom door quietly open, I see that my mother is awake and alert again just like Rose promised. She is dressed, brushing her hair with her back to me. Her eyes find me in her mirror and she smiles a little.

"Hello, Magpie," she says with what passes for cheer for her. Somehow it irks me less when _she_ is the one using my embarrassing nickname. Maybe it's because I'm so glad that she's in a state where she can remember it. She twists in her chair and waves me into the room, patting the edge of the bed next to her for me to sit. Once I am closer to her, it is easier to tell that despite her improvement, she is still weak, still worn. This grasp on clarity is yet a tenuous thing.

"Still feeling better?" I ask carefully.

She moves her head in something like a noncommittal nod. "I feel better now that I have a chance to talk to you. I should have done this before, but…." She trails off sadly for a few seconds, and I dare not push her. "I guess you have a lot of things to ask me, and best to do it while our guests are away." She says _guests_ the same way she would say _rats_ or _spiders_ if they were in our house. But there is more there than disgust this time; there is a hardened resolve under the weakness. There is fight in her.

….

When we join Prim and her mother to watch the Hunger Games after school, I wonder if Madge will appear there again. If I'm really, _really_ honest about it, it's more like _hope she will_. Then I wonder if it's a good idea hoping for something like that. But still, something in her won't quite let me let it go. As we sit and watch a thankfully uneventful afternoon broadcast, I wait for her to knock on the door, give Prim a basket of food to share with everyone, hug Posy, flash me that shy smile. I thought I had convinced myself that had written it all off today. Wishful thinking.

Madge never comes. So instead I watch Katniss throw herself at a dying Town kid that she barely knows and _actually mean it_. I don't think Katniss really knows that she means it, but she does, at least a little. Yet bit by bit I find it less and less bothersome, even the _meaning_ it, because I'm beginning to wonder if I ever really looked at her the way she is looking at Peeta. I'm beginning to pick apart the differences between _loving_ someone and being _in love_ with someone. It's getting easier now that she has a damn good shot at coming out of this alive, and I can see the difference between losing her and _losing_ her.

I appreciate the fact that Katniss edits the story about how she bought Lady for Prim, because the real version wouldn't do me any favors if it were aired on national television. Rory, who is still making a concerted effort not to speak to _me_, jokes to Prim that she is now the proud owner of a celebrity goat. It makes her laugh, which makes Rory's day. I remind myself that I need to make amends with my brother, and note that I ought to plan to talk to him after he's had a chance to see Prim because she tends to improve his mood significantly. When the scene returns to the remaining Career Tributes, I distract Posy by telling her that her ponytail is a mess (only a slight exaggeration of the truth), then brag about what a good job I did of retying it after piling it into something like a bird's nest on top of her head. She is rightfully skeptical based on the way it feels, and takes off for the bathroom to look in the mirror for herself while I watch the television to make sure that the Careers aren't quite ready to break their alliance and hack each other to pieces. By the time she stomps back out to tell me that I'm never allowed to touch her hair again and demand that my (amused) mother fix it, the camera moves on to the District Eleven boy in the wheat field, who has mostly kept to himself and is therefore less risky for her to watch.

The only problem with a boring day in the arena is that it is boring. Most of Panem is pretty much okay with that, I'd wager, because it means they get to go a day without watching their children die, but the Games aren't for Panem – they're for the Capitol. Too long a break in the action means that the Gamemakers will feel the need to put on a show. I almost miss it when they make the announcement. Vick and Posy start bickering over the wishbone from tonight's supper (a roasted grouse) when one accuses the other of cheating to break off the larger piece. I can't tell which party is at fault because the bone somehow ends up in _three_ pieces, and I can't exactly tell my four-year-old sister that it doesn't matter because _wishes don't come true anyway_, so I'm trying to at least get them to stop yelling when Claudius Templesmith invites the remaining Tributes to a Feast tomorrow morning.

Those of us paying attention freeze at the words, because we all put the pieces together instantly. The medicine. She won't _not_ go, not with the way she looks at him. This is it, the difference between losing her and _losing_ her. I look at Prim just in time to see the color drain from her face. Prim, the sister she promised to fight for. _If she dies for him, I'll never forgive her_.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note**

**Among the long list of excuses for the lateness of this update is a bad case of writer's block. The especially frustrating thing about this particular case was that I already had planned what was to happen in this chapter, but the WRITING just wouldn't happen. It's worse than not knowing what to do with a story at all. So at this point, I just have to post. I will very likely go back and edit this extensively, so when I do, I'll make a note in a future Author's note. **

**Also, thanks again for all the support – I swear my wonderful, loyal readers are the only thing that got me through this chapter! And there are lots of recommendations floating around out there for my story, which is really cool – thanks for that, too!**

I get up in what feels like the middle of the night to make sure I have enough time to get to the woods and back before the Feast begins. I've long been an early riser, but the event starts at dawn and that's when I'm usually perched in a tree with my bow at the ready. There will be no hunting today, at least not while it's still dark; Katniss could have done it, but I still need better light than the moon through the trees to make it worth _my_ effort. I can check my lines though. As I pick my way along mostly from memory in the darkness, part of me thinks I ought to have stayed home this morning and gotten he sleep, but the Feast doesn't change the fact that there are six mouths to feed at home. The only thing it really changes is the odds that I may be feeding those mouths on my own _permanently_.

I try not to let myself think that way, try to convince myself that she'll survive because that's what she _does_, but I can't help but wonder how many more times she can tempt fate before she is dealt a losing hand. I don't want to consider the answer, so I focus on being pissed off that they have even taken my last free Saturday from me.

I head home with less than I hoped for, but there is enough to feed us and the Everdeens today, which is really all I was worried about. I can always go back and hunt this evening. Twilight hours are the best time for game, and if I miss the morning I'll settle for dusk. I just hope I'm in the mood to do it later.

Once we get everyone up, dressed, and fed, my mother and I prod the kids outside and down the street. None of us really want to watch this, and on top of that Vick and Posy are especially cranky because they aren't used to being awake so early. Dozens of families trudge along around us, and it's strange to see so many people out and about at this time in the morning. I usually have the Seam to myself or close to it, but a Feast is always a Mandatory Event regardless of when it starts. The mine is closed until noon, and if it were a school day classes would be let out, too.

Halfway there, I scoop up my sister and carry her when it occurs to me that I ought to use her drowsiness to our advantage. If I can get her to fall asleep – or at least snooze a little – maybe she'll miss the worst of the Games today. I think of Madge and the way she had rescued my sister on the day of the Bloodbath, and find that I am still as deeply grateful to her now as I was the moment she had done it, but I doubt she'd be able to get away with it a second time. It surprises me a little – that I'd just assumed she would be there with us again without even giving it a second thought, as if any other way would be unimaginable. As if it would be right for her to be there.

Luckily, by the time we reach the edge of Town and the sky is just beginning to lighten, I feel Posy's arms go limp as she dozes off. _I just hope it doesn't get too loud_. There's no need to search for the Everdeens, since they are in their place of honor at the front of the crowd as usual where they'll be easy prey for the reporters. Besides, even if they weren't in the same spot all we would have to do is follow Rory, who could pick out Primrose Everdeen in the middle of a million people. I'm dreading walking up there, because that will make us easy prey also. But this is another event that Prim shouldn't have to face alone, and her mother isn't exactly a pillar of support. Since I have to take my time working my way through the crowd to avoid disturbing Posy too much, I'm the last one of us to make it up there. Prim looks pale and tired even as Rory offers words of encouragement. Her mother looks like she could blow away like ashes in the breeze. Mom lays a comforting hand on her shoulder but remains silent, probably because she knows she won't get a response anyway. I feel a twinge of concern when it appears that Vick is absent, until I realize that he is actually down on his hands and knees surreptitiously trying to tie Rory's shoelaces together while he isn't looking. I nudge him with a boot, which startles him and makes him fall over like a clumsy puppy.

"Cut it out!" I hiss. When he stands up a little too obediently, I add, "Untie them first, Vick." He sighs, disappointed that he's been caught, and fixes them while Rory remains completely oblivious. _I wonder if Madge wants a _brother_, too._

Then, no sooner than I think her name, she appears beside Prim and squeezes her hand, offers our mothers a small polite smile and then looks to me as she moves down the line. Her hair is tied into a hurried ponytail with a blue ribbon that matches her sundress, a thin sweater thrown over her shoulders to ward off the pre-dawn chill, as if all done in a mad dash to leave the house on time, and the simple imperfection of her appearance somehow only serves to make her more lovely. But the thing that grabs me is the fierce energy that shines through the weariness on her face, the spark that has become so familiar. Madge stops at my side, and her eyes linger on mine as her father announces that the Feast is moments away from beginning. She does not speak, for which I am grateful. But truthfully, she doesn't need to, and neither do I – we understand each other with a glance, and what we understand cannot be said out loud. Then, as the screens show a table rising from the ground in front of the Cornucopia, I realize that I am glad that I am not alone. That it is right that she is here.

….

The skinny red-haired girl darts out of the Cornucopia, snatches the pack marked with her district number, and takes off for the woods. I have to say that I am impressed; that was a clever angle, hiding inside the golden cavern where no one else would be able to see her, so close that no one would be able to catch her before she made off with her prize. We don't get any more time to admire her strategy, though, because her departure is Katniss' cue to run for the pack that can only contain one thing – life-saving medicine for Peeta.

When they announced the Feast last night, the guilt and apprehension that flooded me had been almost too much to bear. Because everyone knew there was only one reason for it. It occurred to me that as much as we were trying to increase their odds of survival, playing up the romance between the Star-Crossed Lovers from Twelve has only made life in the arena more difficult for Katniss and Peeta. Medicine that could have been otherwise sent in a sponsor parachute was now the bait for a deathtrap. After all, what better drama is there than a devoted Tribute losing her life in an attempt to save her true love? I think of my interview again, and can't help but believe that I am at least partially at fault. They may have changed the rules, but the Gamemakers clearly have no intention of allowing two victors.

I am beginning to truly understand the guilt that haunts my mother. I am seeing all of this through new eyes. _Again_. So I hold on to the anger and fury instead.

I try not to look at Gale when the girl form District Two runs out after Katniss; I know he is angry that the Gamemakers have put his friend in this position, and I know the look on his face will break my heart. Besides, it's already hard enough to look at him and keep my composure after what little has happened between us, and now is not the time to dwell on that anyway. So I focus my energy on willing Katniss to turn around and see the girl taking aim with her knife. _Look, Katniss, dammit, look, look_…. But she doesn't, and a blade comes sailing toward her head. I wince as I prepare for the worst, but the Girl on Fire deflects the weapon with a flick of her bow, and the entire square sighs in relief. _She must have heard it coming_. It gets her attention, though, and she spins and puts an arrow into her assailant's arm without losing stride.

I hear Gale swear under his breath, careful not to wake his dozing sister, probably disappointed that it was not a fatal shot. The wounded girl readies another dagger as Katniss straps the miniature backpack onto her arm, and throws it the moment her target turns to flee. Katniss has a second arrow ready in a flash, but it flies wide as the knife catches her in the forehead and she staggers sideways, blinded by a sudden and _alarming_ gush of blood. I can't _not_ look at him when both Tributes tumble to the ground and Katniss finds herself pinned, at the mercy of her larger, stronger opponent; his jaw is clenched to the point of pain, and his grey eyes are narrowed, darkened, and rimmed with tears that he refuses to let fall. The fingers on the hand that he has draped protectively over Posy's shoulder flex as if they want to form a fist, but he resists to keep from disturbing her. He doesn't look away when the Career girl starts to slice into the corner of Katniss' mouth, determined not to abandon her in this horrific moment.

I muster what little courage I can find and touch Gale's arm, wanting him to know that _he_ is not abandoned, either. I don't really expect much of a reaction, so I am shocked when his hand drops from his sister's back and catches mine on the way down. He curls his fingers tightly around my own, carefully at first then hard enough that I feel my bones grind together; I'm certain it will leave bruises, but I refuse to let even the smallest sound of pain escape while he clearly needs this contact, while my friend is about to be flayed alive for the sake of entertainment. So I squeeze his hand in return, and watch with him, because it is the very least I owe them _both_.

Then, quite suddenly, Katniss' would-be murderer is flung to the ground like a toy, and the pin-drop silence in the square crumbles into cautious cheers. I can't quite bring myself to cheer with them; I cannot deny that I am _glad_ to see the cruel Career girl take a fatal blow to her skull, and I find that honest admission sickening. _They're winning_…. Gale doesn't cheer either, and the grip on my hand remains unchanged, but his shoulders slump and his hard gaze finally falls away from the screen. Which, along with the sudden noise from the crowd, jostles Posy awake.

Her eyes flutter open blearily and find me, which elicits a small smile. She squirms a bit, and I feel Gale tense beside me as he notices.

"Is it the feast?" she asks. "Is Catnip there?"

I know that she is a split second from twisting round to see what's going on, so I place my free hand at the back of her head to keep her pinned against her brother's shoulder.

"She's there," I whisper carefully, "and she's doing great, but promise not to look yet, okay? Katniss is fine, but there's… ugly stuff happening." Luckily, there hasn't been any loud screaming or other horrible sounds like there were for the bloodbath, so she won't get too clear an idea of what is going on behind her.

She frowns. "What did they _feed_ them?" she asks.

I can't help but laugh a little in spite of the situation. _I guess that's a good thing if she still thinks a Feast is actually a feast_. I dredge up the most horrible thing I can imagine, that wouldn't also be something she's probably been forced to eat herself out of desperation. "Leftover pig eyeballs from the butcher."

Her little face scrunches up in disgust. "Ew."

"Yeah," I say with dramatic sympathy. "Don't look."

"No way."

I glance back at the screen, and see Katniss headed for the trees.

….

Madge stops whispering conspiratorially with my sister for a moment. I couldn't make out what she said, but I don't really care as long as it keeps Posy distracted until the worst of the action was over. The only thing I was worried about was that Katniss escaped the Feast alive, with or without the medicine, and I was far too terrified that her luck had finally run out to remember to keep Posy shielded from it. _ Twice now._ _What would I do without her?_ The words startle me as they flash unexpectedly through my mind, and I notice that her hand is still crushed inside mine. I loosen my grip a little, but I still maintain contact. I'm not quite ready to be alone again.

"He let her go?" she asks, slightly surprised.

I nod. "He heard her say she was Rue's ally. The girl –"

"The little girl from his district. The one she tried to save."

"Yeah." Little by little, as Katniss puts some distance between herself and the Cornucopia and it becomes clear that no one is going to pursue her right away, I let the knots in me untie themselves. But they only loosen so far; as the sense of relief loses some of its freshness, a deeper anger and resentment burns through. Katniss should have died today. She was simply lucky that another Tribute intervened. And this was different from the time Peeta Mellark had saved her – then, she was trying to save _herself_ and things spiraled out of control. Today, she traded her life for his. Today, she deliberately decided that her promise to try to come home to her sister was less important. I spare a glance for Prim, who begins to break down into tears now that it's all over; she had been frozen in horror for most of the Feast, unable to react as if she couldn't believe it was actually real. Rory drapes an arm protectively around her shoulders as she covers her face with her hands and terrified, relieved sobs shake her. I wonder if she feels like Katniss broke that promise. Someone trying to win the Games does not risk death for something that _another_ Tribute needs.

The people around us become restless, eager to go home so they no longer have to pretend to approve of this morbid spectacle in public. After a few minutes pass without further bloodshed, Peacekeepers begin dismissing the crowd. Finally, I let my hand slip away from Madge's so I can set Posy down, but I watch her carefully for her reaction. She is somber and silent but she still does not shy away, nor does she look like she expects me to say anything. The increasingly-familiar, intense gratitude comes back; _the girl never demands explanations from me_.

I look at Katniss' sister again, and I tell myself it is because I want to make sure she is beginning to calm down, but I know it is because it has become hard to look at Madge again. Madge, with her sky-colored eyes and her sun-colored hair, her perfect skin and even-more-perfect lips, in the middle of this nightmare.

"Gale," she says softly, "you know they're going to want to talk to you again." She nods behind me, and I understand it to mean that the Capitol media team is coming our way.

Prim is better, but she still isn't in good shape, and I know that Rory will defend her and put himself in a bad spot. I want nothing more than to escape, but I know the right thing to do is to catch the reporters and keep them occupied before they get to the Everdeens, even if it's only for a few minutes. I promised Katniss that I'd take care of her family, and _I_ don't break promises. Sometimes, there's more to it than just feeding them. "An interview with _this_-" I point down at my sister "-won't do _any_body _any_ good."

Madge shakes her head in agreement and nudges Posy around Mrs. Everdeen toward my mother. I turn to see the familiar tall, green-skinned man making his way toward us (he's hard to forget), but he is with a different woman. I remember Madge mentioning her briefly the night we sat in the meadow and watched the stars; she'd said she was awful, but left it at that. She certainly _looks_ unpleasant – she is rail thin and wearing dramatic makeup, with straight silver hair and cheekbones so high and sharp that they must be artificial. The look of her reminds me of broken glass, and I am certain that this will not go well.

I intercept the media team by placing myself quite deliberately in the center of their path toward Prim.

"I want to speak with Primrose Everdeen," the woman says, as if it is entirely beneath her to have to address a citizen of District Twelve.

"And I think you can give her a minute," I say matter-of-factly. "She just watched her sister almost die. _Again_."

….

Lima Bean looks at the cameraman beside him to make sure they are filming this, because there is a fair possibility that this year's bloodbath will be reenacted right here in the District Twelve town square in mere moments. Gale does not bother to conceal his contempt. I can tell. I've spent some time on the receiving end of that. For her part, the Bitch (I decided after quite a lot of thought on the matter that there was no sense in putting extra effort into choosing a nicer nickname) is dumbfounded out of pure shock that someone would dare challenge her. Then she appears to spend a second debating whether she ought to demand that he step aside or find a peacekeeper to arrest him.

Hazelle looks horrified. It's obvious that she's already picturing her eldest son in shackles. Or worse. Even Prim appears alarmed now that she has calmed down enough to take in the scene. I don't blame either of them. Diplomacy is clearly not Gale's strong suit.

"Livia," I say in my best placating voice, "I don't think he realizes who you are, I should have introduced you." I ease my way between the two of them.

"You know him?" she asks incredulously.

"I made his acquaintance when I was congratulating Mrs. Everdeen and Primrose on Katniss' performance in training," I say carefully. _No need to let them know that I'm as friendly with their families as I am, and give them a reason follow me when I manage to get away to visit._ "This is Gale. Katniss and Primrose are his cousins." I turn to Gale and hope that he has the sense to play along. "Gale, you remember Marcus. This is Livia, the new reporter that the Capitol sent to us for the rest of the Games. She's here to interview the families."

He gives a tight, forced smile that is anything but friendly, but at least he keeps his mouth shut.

"All well and good, Margaret, but I want to talk to the sister first," she says, as if we should all feel privileged that she has decided to be so patient.

I smile and wave one hand like I cannot believe that I've been so stupid all this time, while I vow to help Rose clean their bathrooms tomorrow and use their toothbrushes to do it. "Yes, of course." I turn to Prim, and see that her eyes are a little drier. "Do you think you can chat for a while?" I ask.

She swallows hard and nods at Rory to let him know that she is alright. "Yes," she says softly. "It's okay, Gale," she says as she steps past him.

Once everyone's attention is focused on the microphone shoved into Prim's face, I scoot behind the reporters watch for a moment to make sure that nothing terribly unpleasant will happen. Gale continues to hover protectively by Prim, but he remains taciturn and I breathe a sigh of relief. After a minute or two, we look up at the screens when Prim points excitedly to see that Katniss has returned to Peeta and is giving him the much-needed medicine.

Mild panic ensues as Katniss faints and collapses in to a bloody heap; Prim starts into a new round of tears, what little color that is left in Mrs. Everdeen's face vanishes, and Gale's heart breaks all over again. The media team cannot decide if they should stay and film more of Prim's reaction or hunt down the Mellarks. While I watch carefully to make sure that Katniss is still breathing, I am irrationally irritated that the Mandatory Event was dismissed before this point – they will force everyone to watch Tributes murder each other, but they don't want to encourage viewing an act of kindness. One more thing to be angry about, I suppose, because it keeps the fear at bay. Once everyone decides that Katniss is not dying – only injured and exhausted – the media team departs for a better story and the Hawthornes and Everdeens breathe a little easier.

Taking advantage of the reporter's preoccupation with the baker's family, Gale steers his charges toward the road back to the Seam. His gray eyes find mine again as they all walk by and he pauses for a second to give me a faint tilt of his head, which I have come to understand as a gesture of thanks. I expect him to continue on his way, but he does not, and all the people walking around us fade into the background. He lingers for a moment more with me, and I wonder what I am supposed to do with it.

He cocks his head thoughtfully the other way and his pretty eyes narrow a bit as he asks, "How do you do it?"

I blank for a second at the question before I realize that he must be referring to the media team. I shrug and answer him honestly. "I spit in their food."

He cracks a smile and shakes his head, but there is still something melancholy underneath it.

"She's going to make it Gale," I say.

He nods slowly as if forcing himself to believe it before he finally walks away.

I admire Prim's courage, Gale's protectiveness, Rory's compassion, Hazelle's strength. Now that the excitement is over, I get a chance to think of the things that my mother told me yesterday. How she had been so alone when her sister went to the Games, how my grandparents had tried hard not to blame her but she knew they wondered why she'd let Marianne take her place, how she blamed – _blames_ – herself for being so paralyzed by shock and fear that the only thing she could do was cry as her twin walked up to the stage in her stead. The interviews done, the cruel questions asked, all with no one standing behind her or if they were, no one defending or protecting her. Her sister's gruesome death, faced with solitary horror because her parents were too distraught to be strong even for their surviving daughter. The Victor that came back to her _own_ District – the District to which Victors never return – as a constant reminder that Marianne did not. The Victor that did not try hard enough to save her. The Victor that she would resent for simply being alive. The self-loathing that came with the resentment, because any _decent_ person would be glad that someone from their own District came home.

I hope that this year's Hunger Games do not break Gale – _any_ of them – like the Quarter Quell broke my mother. I hope that being less alone than she was will keep them together. I hope that he knows that I will pick up the pieces as many times as he needs me to do it.


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note:**

**Hooray! An update in less than two weeks! (Okay, not by much, but hey – this is good for me lately!) Topped 400 reviews – thanks to PPerfect this time – so amazing! As always, thank to all my readers for reading and all my reviewers for reviewing… you're the only reason I've made it this far!**

Sunday morning, I oversleep. Even on weekends when I don't have to get to school, I'm still up fairly early to take care of my mother. Apparently, a few weeks' worth of not resting properly caught up with me. It feels lovely, I have to admit, though I feel selfish for doing it even accidentally. I can hear raindrops against my window, and through the narrow part in the curtains I can see that the sky outside is gray, which makes me want to stay in bed even longer.

Even though my mother was feeling well again yesterday, there is no telling what nightmares haunted her overnight. It is always possible that she could relapse on any given morning, especially while the Games are still ongoing. So I get up and tiptoe down the hall, careful not to make any noise that will attract the attention of our guests. I don't really want to interact with them any more than I have to. At least the last team made up for being a pain by sharing valuable information.

When I peek into my mother's room, I find it empty, but the bed is actually made which I interpret as a good sign. She must still be feeling better if she bothered to make her bed when she got out of it. I waver for a minute, consider going downstairs to play the piano, think better of it as my left hand aches from yesterday's bruises, and decide that I've earned the chance to rest a little, dammit. So I go back to bed.

Sleep proves evasive again, though, since my mind returned to its usual racing swirl after waking completely. My hand makes me think of Gale (not that I really _need_ a reminder) but for once, though thoughts of him are never far away, he is not the _only_ thing on my mind. Learning my mother's story has added more – and weightier – debris to the maelstrom. Remembering that I had so easily dismissed her as weak and defeated brings a sharp pang of pain to the surface; her fragility was never an act but the strength and determination beneath it is the reason that we will have two Victors this year.

She'd said that early on it had been difficult to convince herself that she ought to live life at all; it was a struggle to get out of bed each day, eat a meal, go to school. Haymitch Abernathy had even made an effort to offer her condolences after he returned home – he hadn't _always_ been a drunken boor, I suppose – but she had refused to accept any semblance of kindness from him and instead they argued bitterly, though she would not tell me what awful words were exchanged between them. Time made everyday life if not easier at least less jarring (hadn't her sister taken her place so she could go on, after all?), but the sadness and guilt never faded.

Then she had seen a mockingjay on television while watching the news with my father, while he was still a calculating, observant clerk in the Justice building with hopes of being promoted to a position where he could begin changing things. It had suddenly, inexplicably sparked an uneasy hope in her – not because it was a mockingjay, but because it was the _same exact_ mockingjay she had seen the day before on screen. So she watched everything obsessively for weeks, making sure that it was true, considering the consequences if it was, confiding in her husband that she suspected that things were not exactly as the Capitol led everyone to believe. It wasn't until Dad was appointed Mayor, and became privy to more carefully guarded information, that they knew with certainty that the Capitol had not been entirely truthful about the outcome of the last war. And finally, she decided that she needed someone who knew (and hated) not only the Capitol but also the Hunger Games, which meant that she had to get back on speaking terms with Haymitch Abernathy.

This newfound knowledge has strengthened my confidence in our plans and eased some of the worry I've had about whether the Capitol has begun to suspect that there is more going on in the Games than meets the eye. I can rest a little easier knowing that a rebellion has more backing it than a handful of traitors and weakened citizens. We have an entire District – a _very powerful_ one – that isn't supposed to exist. A district that exists because it already had the Capitol completely cowed once before.

….

I wait in a comfortable tree with my bow, and today I feel like I might actually be able to shoot something. No one was waiting for me in the kitchen when I got out of bed this morning, which is the best start to a day that I've had in a while. I'll take what I can get at this point.

I had expected the hunting to be difficult today, after her death. She isn't actually dead in the literal sense, true, but that is how I think of yesterday's events, because the Katniss _I_ know is gone. Instead, I have found renewed resolve in this place, as if determined not to allow her to take everything else dear to me with her.

Katniss is alive and relatively safe again, snuggled up in a damp little cave with her recovering-yet-useless ball-and-chain, which is quite honestly a lot more than she deserves in my opinion. She's still alive, and can still come home to Prim. No harm, no foul, right? _If only_. She doesn't have to see the look on her (forgotten) sister's face. She doesn't have to feel how much it hurts to hate someone you love.

So I try really hard to remember that this is a good thing, she can still win. Really fucking hard. Because I know that even if she does, things will not go back to the way they were before.

I ready my bow and pause for a clear shot, and put an arrow through a grouse. The commotion startles a second one from the undergrowth and I take it as well. As I slide down from my perch I scan the ground for a nest, but I don't expect to find much since it's so late in the summer. Grouse nests are great if it's the right time of year; they usually yield a dozen eggs and you don't have to climb a tree to get to them. Though there is no nest to be found, my effort is rewarded when I find that the brambles where the birds were hiding are full of raspberries. Halfway through picking the bush clean, a third arrow finds a squirrel (_looks like we'll have bread for dinner again_), and I decide that I _definitely_ do not feel bad about robbing the baker blind with our trading arrangement.

The air smells like rain as I follow an old deer run through the woods, and sure enough by the time I come to the place where I know I can always find strawberries I hear the drops start to hit the leaves of the trees above me. It isn't hard enough to came through the canopy yet, so I don't feel it until I'm crouched in the small clearing for a few minutes searching for ripe fruit, and even then it's only a cool drop or two. Only a handful of berries are red enough to pick, even after I scour the plants more thoroughly than usual, and I find myself debating whether or not a handful is worth making a stop at the Mayor's home. Probably not, since I don't think I've ever sold less than a pint at a time. I don't realize that I'm a little disappointed until I start trying to figure a way to make it work. _Maybe, if I add in some of the raspberries_. Then there would be enough to sell, and with six people to feed at home I need every sale I can get. But would that change the price then? If so, by how much? I consider the numbers for a while, and decide that it should probably just even out to the usual amount.

The rain picks up just a little as I crawl under the fence and back inside the district, but it still isn't enough that I need to pull up the hood of my jacket, and I have to admit that making excuses to sell a handful of strawberries doesn't have a damn thing to do with the price. Especially after last time I did it I didn't even count the money. Besides, if that _were_ the reason, all I'd have to do is wait a week and by then there would probably be _two_ pints worth to pick.

And this is _after_ I'd written it all off two days ago. _What the hell am I doing?_

At the edge of town I finally need my hood up, but it's still far from bad enough to keep me from going about my Sunday rounds. At the Hob, I sweet-talk Greasy Sae into giving me a free breakfast by giving her a break on the price of the weasel I have for her, then make her smile by promising not to tell anyone that it was a weasel tomorrow and dropping what I would have paid for the bowl of stew in her Hunger Games collection jar. I might be pissed off, but that doesn't change the fact that Prim needs her sister. The ever-elusive fox that I finally caught does in fact earn enough from the tanner to afford Rory's new shoes, but after staring blankly at a row of various sizes I decide to save the money and bring him with me because I haven't the slightest idea as to what will actually fit him. Plus, it'll be a starting point for getting back on his good side. I pick up a bar of soap for my mother, and a spool of thread for my arrows.

By the time I get to the square, it's raining pretty hard; the bottoms of my pants are wet nearly halfway to the knee from splashing, and water runs in streams off the edge of my hood. No thunder and lightning yet, though. I saved the pair of grouse for the butcher – they are one of the catches I can sell there for a decent price because the idea of eating wild poultry isn't as repulsive to merchant customers as eating a weasel. At the bakery, my squirrel fetches two loaves of bread and Katniss' trouble earns a sack of cheese buns for Prim. I try not to let it irk me. But to be honest, I don't try very hard.

When I unlatch the Undersee's garden gate, the memory of doing it on a very different occasion comes flooding back. _Is now really so different? _I listen carefully after I knock on the back door, wondering if I will hear playing on her piano again over the sound of the rain on the awning above me. _She had a song for autumn_, I muse to myself, distantly surprised that I care, _and for stars…. Does she have a song for rain? Does she have a song for me? _ The question is so shocking that I nearly turn around and leave, but of course this is the moment that the lock on the knob rattles and I know I can't get away before the person opening it will see me.

Though Madge is dressed her clothes are a touch disheveled and her hair is down in a tousled mess, as if she was recently roused from bed. Her still-drowsy eyes light up when they land on me, and she brightens so radiantly into a smile that I forget why I'm here for a moment. She notices that the rain has become heavy enough that the porch can no longer offer adequate shelter, and insists that I come inside.

I hesitate, stuck between the way her lips form the sounds for my name and the lines of her silhouette form a pretty hourglass. She sighs and reaches out for a handful of my soggy jacket to pull me inside with her. Weeks ago, I might have recoiled despite the rain, but today I go without a second thought.

She taps a finger against her lips and jerks a thumb toward the room beyond the kitchen, and I assume that she is warning me that the media team is not far out of earshot. "I can't let you stand out there in that," Madge says softly.

"But I'm…. flooding your floor," I say, looking down at the buckets of water pooling around my boots. As easy as it was to let her bring me through the door, I find that now that I am here I would rather be back outside. But for once it's not because I don't want to be standing here with her; it's more because I'm putting the things I've taken apart back together, and it's a struggle to get my head around it while she's here being so… distracting.

"It's seen worse," she says with a shrug. I get that shy, expectant smile, but it fades when I wait too long to speak. One hand comes self-consciously to her temple and makes a vain attempt at smoothing the long waves of honey-colored hair that spill over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I probably look a mess... I overslept by accident, and I just got up…." she says, as if expecting me to be offended that she is less-than-put-together at the moment.

But I don't mind. _So this is what you'd look like first thing in the morning_…. I force myself to find my voice so I don't have to finish the thought. "I don't have much for you today," I say as I pull the package from my bag, wondering if I should have first reassured her that she is the loveliest mess I've ever seen. "So I don't know if you'll still want them. They're at least half raspberries this time."

Madge takes the package, but doesn't open the paper. Instead, she eyes me closely as if working out the solution to a difficult riddle. "If you didn't think I'd want them, why did you bring them?" she asks, and suddenly we aren't talking about buying strawberries anymore.

My eyes drift upward as I search for words, because it's easier to find them when I'm not looking at her. "Well, you never know. Worth a shot."

Then she turns slowly to retrieve the jar of money from the top shelf of the cupboard, and watching her stretch for it is excruciating. "I don't mind if they're more than half raspberries, you know," she says as she counts out a handful of coins, "or if there's none at all."

I understand that she is referring to the evening we spent in the meadow, the first time I'd ever sought her out without a sale or a debt for a reason, and it feels like a brick drops onto my chest. "Everything will be different tomorrow, you know," I warn. _There will be no getting around the fact that merchant girls want nothing to do with miners_.

She looks at me as if I'm crazy. _She probably isn't far off the mark_. "_I_ won't be."

I just stare at her, surprised that she is so steadfast in the way she says this, so unwavering here next to me. Then we hear the sounds of shuffling feet and chattering voices in the next room, and now is not the time for Capitol reporters to catch me for an interview. "I should go before they see who's selling you fruit."

"But the rain-"

"I'd rather deal with the rain than _them_."

She stifles a small laugh. "I don't blame you. Be careful. Don't drown."

I'm at the bottom of the porch steps when I hear her voice behind me one more time, quiet and clear through the downpour around me. "And Gale? Don't disappear." I look over one shoulder and the hood of my jacket gets in my way, but I still catch a glimpse of the way she looks at me before she closes the door.

The summer rain feels suddenly cold now that I am no longer close to the warmth of her low smolder, so I pick up my pace. Not that it really matters, becaue it's coming down so hard that the fat drops sting wherever they hit bare skin, and even if I hurry I'll be soaked to the bone by the time I get home. It had hardly seemed like anything early this morning, just a few drops here and there but now…. Now I can only shake my head and wonder what happened. _Falling, right as rain, so hard it hurts._

_Footnotes: _

_For those who are curious, the information that Gale gives about grouse is accurate. Specifically, he would likely be hunting the ruffled grouse; it is a common game bird in Appalachia._

_And for those wondering why he would buy a spool of thread for his arrows: feather fletchings can be affixed to an arrow shaft in several ways. Ideally, an archer uses a jig and glue to do it, which allows for easier and more accurate assembly, but I highly doubt that Gale would have something so fancy. Another way is to "tie" them on with thin strips of sinew from a kill by winding the strips around the shaft to keep the feathers in place. Since Katniss mentions that they keep their equipment in a hollow log in the woods, this didn't seem practical as it would invite critters to chew on their arrows. This method can be imitated by using thread, which seemed to me to be the most likely way that he would make a handmade arrow. _


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note:**

**Apologies AGAIN. I had an absurd number of things that I had to do over the last couple of weeks and they were all time-sensitive, which means that my story got shoved to the back burner yet again. Believe me: I WOULD RATHER HAVE BEEN WRITING. Things have wound down a bit though, so I'm hoping to get back to a more frequent update schedule. I can't promise yet, but I'm going to try **_**really hard**_**. **

**Also, thank you, all my wonderful readers, for sticking around while I've been stringing you along! Your reward is not far away. Reviews and feedback keep me going **

My first two days in the mine are thankfully spent not in the mine, but in a large, bland, windowless room with dozens of other new hires, while an instructor drones on about how it is an honor to serve the Capitol in our District industry, what is expected of us, and how to perform our duties without killing ourselves. The lecture on safety is a joke, really, since the conditions below ground kill workers all the time without any help from acts of blatant stupidity. We are issued uniforms, timecards, and team assignments. I decide after some debate to consider it lucky that Bristel will be working in the same unit that I will – I don't feel great about him being in close proximity to explosives and other potentially dangerous equipment, but it will be a comfort to be working alongside someone I know. We are informed of the proper procedures for reporting injuries (assuming we survive them), and where to go to see the Capitol-trained physician assigned to the mine (who will only bother with you if he thinks you'll be able to go back to work in a timely manner).

After two days of orientation, we are given over to the depths of the earth. Two days is all the preparation we get for a potentially fatal career. The tunnels are dark and cramped, the air stale and still – nothing different from the field trips we had taken during school, except that it now seems even more ominous since it's no longer just a day's visit. The veteran workers are somber, and within few hours the newest of us fall into step with them. Even Bristel, always quick to crack a joke or stir conversation, retreats into himself.

I remind myself yet again why I have decided to put myself through this – for the good of my family, the ones that I love enough to make this nightmare worth it. With each strike of my pickaxe I recite a name to myself. _Rory. Vick. Posy. Rory. Vick. Posy_. Every time I pick up a shovel, and heave a pile of coal into the bin to be taken back to the surface. _Rory. Vick. Posy_. Rory and I are at least on speaking terms again after that new pair of shoes, which is progress. Vick still can't wait to tell me every little detail of his day at school, even though he has to wait till later in the day to do it now. Posy doesn't have any qualms about shoving her brothers out of the way when she decides that it is her turn to be the focus of my attention. Each motion, each minute spent in this pit is for one of them. Thinking of them keeps my feet in place, because my first instinct is to turn and run, to escape the grave I am digging for myself. By the time I am done I ache from the day's exertion, but I am no stranger to hard work. I'll get used to that. The exhaustion will get easier. I hope the misery will, too.

The longer days have one distinct benefit – there is less time for watching the Hunger Games. I miss the muddy, brutal battle between the remaining District Two and Eleven Tributes, so I only get to see the highlights later in the evening. I confess that I am surprised at the result; I expected the boy that rescued Katniss come out on top, but his strength and size were no match for the rage Cato harbored over the death of his ally. The thing that concerns me is that he acquires a set of body armor for his trouble, which will make it a lot more difficult to kill him with an arrow. I also miss most of the live footage of Katniss and Peeta sharing kiss after kiss in their little cave by the creek, but there are highlights for that too, so I _don't_ get to miss seeing her thaw little by little, and start to realize that she means it. I don't get to miss seeing her forget about everyone else that she loves.

The second day that I spend underground, even with the practiced mantra of my siblings' names, the darkness and closeness threaten to get the better of me. I may have known all my life that this is the place that I would end up, but I am accustomed to daylight and open space and living things – and all that is here is the stone inside the dim circles of light cast from our headlamps, and ghosts in the blackness beyond that. I try to think of the woods, the meadow, the sky, _anything_, try to imagine that everything isn't quite so close and dead so far beneath the earth, but the dense dark seeps over the memory like spilled ink into paper. And it makes me angry. _Because that was my music_ – the thought crashes into me sideways so suddenly that the handle of my shovel nearly slips from my fingers. But it's less the words that rattle me than the lips that spoke them. The girl made of sunlight and fire, sharp wits and curvy lines. The girl I dare not think about while I am here because she is so unlike this place, because she makes me feel like rain, because _I miss her_. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she has become tangled up in the things that are my music. But of all of them _she_ is the one that fights the darkness the hardest, the one that cannot be eclipsed by this hell.

It's an uneasy thing at first, so unexpected, but I start to let myself think of her because she keeps the shadows at bay. The rhythm of my brothers' and sister's names keep my feet firmly planted, but it is the thought of ferocious blue eyes and a messy golden ponytail that keeps me sane. And thank God for that, because I'm only two days in and teetering on the brink of losing it. _What would I do without her, this girl that admires the fight in me_? I think of her to keep the fire going in that fight. It'll give me time to find my footing here before I put it to use.

….

I couldn't have imagined it was possible, but the thoughts of rebellion that had so consumed my mind over the last few weeks start to collect dust as they are replaced by a constant worry for Gale. Part of me feels guilty for being so preoccupied while there are so many important things on the cusp of happening, but there isn't much I can do anyway while we wait for the end of the Hunger Games and the thought that he is working in the same place that claimed his father's life is _heartbreaking_. It's almost silly how much I miss catching sight of him at school, considering that he had always pretty much ignored me. I replay our brief conversation in the kitchen in my head over and over and over again while I ought to be reading an assignment or listening to a lecture in class, or eavesdropping on the Media Team at home, or lying in bed at night trying in vain to sleep, hoping and praying that he'd meant what I thought he did – that he is becoming less inclined to keep me at arm's length. Hoping and praying that he believed me when I tried to tell him that the circumstances around us don't (_will never_) matter to me. And that moment between us has made everything else so much more unbearable. I'm on the edge of having something to lose again and it has me in a vice. _How do all those Seam women do it? _And I'm not even a wife; no, I'm just a stupid girl in love with a man who simply decided not to hate me. _How much worse does this feel when he loves you back? _

….

The field of potential Victors narrows further, and after watching the daily highlights I learn that it is simply the result of Peeta Mellark's stupidity – the District Five girl who had survived by scavenging other Tribute's supplies drops dead after eating a handful of berries that he had gathered for a meal. Katniss had the good sense to forbid him from accompanying her on a hunt after he proved less than useless and left him unsupervised to gather food that he couldn't scare away, at which point he proved less than useless yet again. While I admit that botany isn't exactly my strength, I know what a blueberry is and, more importantly, _isn't_. The least he could have done would have been to start eating them before Katniss returned, and give her one less thing to weigh her down. It's not a very nice thing to think, but truthfully I've never been especially concerned with being very nice, and if he were gone maybe she'd remember that she has a sister here in Twelve that needs her alive.

And then, the night before what would be my third day, I am granted a reprieve when Claudius Templesmith announces that the Gamemakers have a special treat for the end of this year's Hunger Games.

….

School is cancelled, the mine is closed, and a strict curfew is imposed on the district. The end of the Games is technically another mandatory event, but since it's difficult to predict how long it could take, we are not required to gather in the square to watch yet. Instead, Peacekeepers patrol the streets to make sure that everyone remains in their homes to watch their televisions.

So far, there has been no information as to what kind of surprise awaits the remaining Tributes in the Arena. While the rational part of me knows that those sorts of details are kept carefully secret (especially this late in the Games), some little corner of my brain continues to wonder if perhaps the Capitol has caught wind of our plans and tightened security around all of their Gamemakers. Tangerine had, after all, given me a map a few weeks ago, and she was just a television reporter; couldn't one of our high-ranking contacts have ferreted out at least a few clues? The boy from District Two had found a set of armor inside his pack from the feast when he finally butchered the Tribute that had taken it – had the Capitol become weary of Katniss' advantage with a long-distance weapon, and decided to level the field again? Will today's special event also be specifically designed to work against her and Peeta? Was the rule change a simple ruse, announced to create a more dramatic ending when they steered the odds back out of her favor?

Once the reporters are done with him and out the door, I catch my father before he departs for the justice building, hoping that he'll have something to tell me that will allay my fears. He tries, I'll give him that, saying that there has been no news indicating that our plans have been discovered. But he is apprehensive, uncertain, and I call him on it.

"I worry about the same things you do, Magpie," he says.

"So no one has told us that they definitely _don't_ know."

He sighs heavily, and I remember that he carries far more weight on his shoulders than I do. "We're playing the waiting game right now."

The curfew means that I am stuck at home, but at least today's events mean that the Media Team will be out and about for a while, collecting interviews from the Everdeens and the Mellarks and others familiar with the star-crossed lovers from Twelve. I feel a little selfish for looking forward to another break from them, because it means that people who are already tortured enough have to endure their insensitive questions and flippant attitudes. I wish I could at least visit Prim and offer comfort and encouragement, but I'm not sure I could get away with it even as the Mayor's daughter, and I'm a little uneasy about leaving my mother.

And I might as well be honest – I'd like to see Gale again. _Would he like to see me?_ I can almost believe that he might, after last Sunday.

To give myself something to do, I sit at the piano and noodle around on the keys, playing bits and pieces of familiar compositions. My fingers feel clumsy on the keys, though, and it's an odd feeling; so often I use music as a distraction, but I don't want to be _too_ distracted today and miss something important in the Games. My lack of focus causes my technical ability to suffer. Still, I keep at it, because feeling useless becomes more painful by the second.

After a while, my mother comes downstairs to brave the parlor where the television is on. When she sits down on the couch, Katniss and Peeta are on their way to the lake, apparently spurred to action after finding that the Gamemakers turned off their water supply. I watch her carefully, worried by this show of courage because it can only end badly for her.

The camera turns to Cato, the remaining Tribute from District Two, as he wanders the woods near his camp by the lake. He must be hunting for the lovers from Twelve, but I'm relieved to see that they are approaching from another direction. The longer it takes for them to meet, the better.

After a few minutes, I can't stand the silence, and I ask her as gently as I can, "Are you sure you want to watch this, Mom?"

She flinches slightly at the sound of my voice, and something in her face hardens as if from pain. "I'm sure that I don't want to. But I'm sure that I must."

It occurs to me that, for all my scheming and defiance and _anger_, I don't know a damn thing about courage and strength. I move from the piano bench to the couch to sit with her. She gives me a sad, distant smile. "You can keep playing," she says softly.

I shake my head. "You're not doing this alone," I say with finality.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note:**

**I meant to note this in my last chapter and didn't, so I am doing it now…. It has come to my attention that there are now fanarts floating around out there along with the recommendations for my story. SrpiaEahn has a rather lovely one on Tumblr (under the name of-spectacles-witnessed, I believe), and I have since found a few others (but I can't really tell who the original creators are because I really don't understand how social network stuff works, so I won't list them – but if one of them belongs to you, let me know) and I want to say THAT'S JUST ACES! It's great that people are recommending me, but it's even more amazing to think that my writing has inspired such wonderful work! Thank you a million times, and then a million more!**

**And a disclaimer: A few lines are lifted directly from **_**The Hunger Games.**_** You'll know it's not mine; just minding my Ps and Qs as usual.**

I don't get any sleep the night the mutts are released into the Arena. I sit on the couch and hold my trembling mother all afternoon while she forces herself to watch the horrific scene out of a sense of duty. Her sister had been killed by mutts in the Quarter Quell, and though the wolves are a far cry from the tall, elegant birds that sliced my aunt to ribbons with razor-edged beaks, it still hits devastatingly close to home. And it worsens when it becomes clear that the creatures had been created from this year's fallen Tributes – other people's sisters, brothers, children, friends. This time, it was more than just a fancy show of Capitol engineering. Once she cries herself into another crippling headache after watching the creatures catch Cato and then make a game of dissecting him, I help her stumble up the stairs so she can collapse into bed.

After making sure that she is settled a little, I return to the couch in the parlor to watch the rest of it. I really don't want to, much like my mother had said, but I feel like I have to do it. I do not want to miss the moment that Cato dies – not because I am looking forward to his death, exactly, but because I want to be there when two Victors are declared, and the Head Gamemaker's fate is sealed. As cruel and deranged as Cato was, it is the Capitol that made him into a monster – perhaps not as literally as they did the other Tributes, but a monster just the same. He was from one of the favored Districts, where the Capitol nurtures a culture that enjoys the Hunger Games and encourages their children to volunteer. As much as I have to be honest about being glad for his death, I cannot not deny that he doesn't deserve to die like _this_, even if being flayed alive is strikingly similar to the way his ally had promised to murder Katniss. The only ones who deserve it are Seneca Crane and President Snow.

But Cato doesn't die during the night. Instead, he lingers on in agony while Katniss and Peeta huddle in small, shivering balls atop the Cornucopia waiting for morning. I have to look away each time they pan over what is left of his still-living body. I get away from it for a few moments at a time and keep myself awake when I go to check on my mother, who is sleeping fitfully with the help of a morphling injection. Each time sleep threatens to overtake me, the images that materialize behind my eyes reawaken me like a splash of cold water.

The propos started onscreen not long after the wolf mutts hamstrung their victim and he could no longer walk; Panem citizens were to go to their designated public viewing areas (the town square for those of us in Twelve, of course) at dawn for the finale of the Games. Cato clearly was not going to survive for long, so everything would draw to a close within the day. If he had happened to perish before dawn, the mandatory event would just be a replay of the declaration of Victory, but since he didn't, we all get to watch him get eaten alive for a while longer first and see the announcement live. So when the sun starts to lighten the sky outside, I change my clothes in hopes that it's not quite so obvious that I'm a wreck, and head into town.

As I walk to the square, I know I should be pleased – excited, even – but the nights' horrors have left a bitter taste in my mouth. When I get there I look immediately for Gale. Because, I guess… that's what we do now. We find each other.

I don't see him as I make my way to the front of the growing crowd, but I see Prim and her mother chatting with Lima Bean and the Bitch while a cameraman hovers nearby. As I get closer, I hear Prim gushing tearfully that she can't wait to see her beloved sister again. The Bitch seems impatient with her answers – Prim's response must be too verbose for her taste this morning, and she thanks her curtly almost before she is finished speaking and barks to the rest of her crew to locate the Mellarks. Everyone may adore Primrose Everdeen, but she's no match for the parents of a boy who may yet not survive. Peeta is slowly bleeding to death again, and that will make for a far better interview. _Katniss won't let that happen, though, she'll make sure he outlasts Cato_… _we'll win this. _

The Bitch ignores me altogether as she passes me by (which doesn't bother me a bit), but Lima Bean at least offers a polite "Good morning" in my general direction. I just nod courteously in return, hoping not to invite conversation, and once they move along I turn to Prim.

She smiles excitedly and throws her arms around me in an enthusiastic hug. The gesture eases a little of the bitterness in me, but I still can't help but think with a touch of sorrow, _shouldn't she be doing this with her mother? _Mrs. Everdeen smiles faintly at the two of us, but doesn't show any interest in participating. _How_ _do you become so broken that you let your twelve-year-old child face this alone?_

"She's winning," Prim says with guarded relief.

I smile back at her. "It's almost over."

She takes a deep breath in an attempt to compose herself before her head snaps around at the sound of her name. Rory Hawthorne shoves his way past a group of people and she starts into joyful tears again as they embrace. "She's comin' home, Prim!"

Hazelle follows close behind, her youngest son in tow so he doesn't get separated from her, and gingerly squeezes Mrs. Everdeen's hand with quiet words of congratulations. Gale trails a few paces behind her, carrying his sister as usual. Posy sees me and waves happily before her brother sets her down. "Go give Prim a hug, too. She's earned it," he tells her, fatigue evident in his voice, and she darts immediately to her _cousin_. When he stands again, his steel-colored eyes come to my face and I can see the dark circles beneath them. He sidles up next to me to stand as we have for so many of these events, and looks at me closely for a second longer before saying dryly, "You, too?"

My first reaction is to bristle at the comment; there's no doubt that I probably look every bit as exhausted as he, but I certainly don't like hearing it. I soften after a beat, though, when I realize that he means it not as an insult but more like a statement of solidarity. "Yeah," I admit with a sigh.

….

Posy comes back and throws her arms around Madge with a giggle as the screens above us flicker to life, and my first thought is to snatch up my sister. I hadn't been as lucky as I was the last time we gathered in the square so early; Vick let it slip that Katniss was sure to be declared Victor today, so she has been wide awake and eager to watch the Games all morning. Madge must notice the look on my face because she immediately nudges Posy toward me. I crouch down so I can look my sister levelly in the eye and take her gently by the shoulders, deciding that today I can't take my chances playing more games with her. And besides, she's going to have to start learning sooner or later.

"Pose, I need you to listen to me, okay?" I say, and she nods to tell me that I have her full attention. I'll have to make it quick, because I know _that_ never lasts long. "You _cannot_ watch until I say it's okay, alright? This is _serious_. It's gonna be really bad, so you need to stand right here with me, cover your ears, and _don't turn around_ until I say so."

She eyes me critically for a second, and says "But I thought Catnip was going to win."

_How do I explain to a five-year-old that that won't happen until the wolves finally strip enough flesh from Cato's mangled body that it can no longer sustain life?_ "She is," I tell her, "but it's gonna be scary first. So _please_, just do what I say."

I half expect some amount of protest – she _is_ a Hawthorne, too, after all – but Posy decides not to argue. Maybe it was the pleading tone in my voice that convinced her. When I stand back up, she dutifully cups her hands over her ears and leans into the side of my leg facing behind us. I'm glad not to have to fight with her, because I have more than enough fighting to do on my own. Figuring out whether I was _in_ _love_ with Katniss never changed the fact that I _love_ her, and loving her doesn't change the anger and resentment and disappointment, and all of those things don't change how much I still want this to end and for her to come home safe.

When the broadcast comes on, Madge catches my eye and gives me a faint, sad smile as if to say that the horror of the Hunger Games is nearly done, and I am glad to have her here beside me again. Even when she is exhausted, the glowing embers never quite die out.

We watch Cato try to die for nearly an hour, but it would seem that in the end, his strength is his curse. The only blessing is that now his shrill cries of pain have weakened to pitiful, wet gurgling noises – still awful, but less likely for my sister to overhear. Peeta and Katniss both flinch each time the plaintive sounds echo below them. I look to Madge to see how she is faring, and beneath the evident nausea there is the hot flicker of ire in her narrowed, darkened eyes. Posy is becoming fidgety, and is only covering her ears half the time, but she doesn't turn around. Prim's face is streaked with tears, but she keeps her eyes focused carefully on Rory's shoulder next to her so she won't have to watch the scene.

Finally, Katniss agrees to take her arrow from Peeta's tourniquet since it has become abundantly clear that the Capitol's mutts have been carefully trained not to finish their job too quickly. She hangs over the top of the Cornucopia while he holds her feet to keep her from slipping, nocks her last arrow, and mercifully puts it through Cato's throat. Soft mumblings ripple through the crowd around us; seconds later, the cannon fires and the wolf-creatures disappear into a hole in the Arena floor.

And nothing happens.

My first reflex is to turn to Madge again – I _still_ can't believe how easily that always happens – and she meets my gaze immediately. Her brow furrows in confusion, a perfect mirror of my thoughts, and we both look back at the screen waiting for the moment to come. The whispers in the crowd evaporate, no one speaks or moves, waiting, waiting….

The Tributes from Twelve decide that they must still be too close for the hovercraft to retrieve the last corpse. The whispering begins anew, tentatively, and I see Madge nod her head faintly as if encouraging the would-be Victors to move away from the Cornucopia. I mean to look to Prim again, but I get stuck on the way Madge bites her lip impatiently and the sense of guilt returns but differently this time; it's less that I'm looking at her this way, and more that it's _now_ of all times that I'm doing it. _My friend is about to be declared Victor of the Seventy Fourth Hunger Games, and I'm standing here wondering what it would taste like if it were _my_ teeth leaving a mark on Madge Undersee's lips_….

"Gale!" I receive a bony elbow to my knee and remember that Posy is standing next to me. "Will you listen?" she says with annoyance that only a four-year-old can adequately express. "Everybody's talking! Can I look yet?"

_Look at what?_ "Just – yeah, it's okay…." My sister turns around and pulls me back into the square while I remind myself to keep a better handle on focusing my attention. I look back up just in time to hear Claudius Templesmith's announcement.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the Rule Book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

My willpower vanishes almost before I realize it, and I lock eyes with Madge again.

….

"No!" The exclamation spills out before I can stop it, and I feel my composure slipping away. "They can't – they can't _do_ that!" I bite my tongue until it hurts to keep anything more from passing my lips, anything to indicate that I'm after more than just a happy ending. The crowd picks up the chatter again, and this time there is a sharp edge to it that thankfully drowns out the better part of my outburst.

"They can do whatever they want," Gale says bitterly, an angry hint of _I-told-you-so_ in his voice.

He's right. They can. But he doesn't know how much is riding on this outcome. In the space of a ten-second announcement, Seneca Crane went from the man who weakened the Hunger Games to the greatest Gamemaker in history, _we_ went from undermining the Capitol to strengthening its grip on its districts, and worst of all, the two remaining Tributes who were actually allowed to _trust_ each other are being forced to _kill_ each other. Whether or not they are really _lovers_ (as the Games had progressed it became harder to tell how much of the romance was real and how much was strategic) there is no denying that the _friendship_ between them is genuine. Katniss and Peeta both care for each other, have fought hard for each other, and now the Capitol is tearing it all apart for the sake of entertainment.

"They can't make them kill each other!" I say stupidly, because I know they can. Or at least make one let the other die. From the looks of it, it'll probably be Peeta; he's in bad shape still, and no matter what Katniss does to try to help him, he won't survive for long without a doctor.

I cast my eyes around frantically, as if there was something I could actually do to fix the situation. I spare a glance for Prim, who is sobbing again, and it only makes me angrier because I'm so _sick_ of seeing the poor, sweet girl _cry_. I find my father standing up in front of the crowd with his secretary, Peacekeeper Cray and a few other officials but he pointedly ignores me, which is also infuriating but rather wise on his part – if I'd actually caught his eye I might have started screaming things I shouldn't. Gale looks at me as if puzzled that I am so surprised by this turn of events. I look back over my shoulder to see everyone else' reaction, and only invite scowls and hateful stares.

I hear the girl standing behind us just as I start to turn back to the screens. "'Best Hunger Games ever,'" she sneers icily. "You bet."

The pinprick of tears behind my eyes is immediate, and I'm so ashamed of it that I cannot speak because of all people I am the _last_ one to have the right to cry. The most that I can manage is a weak shake of my head in a silent and rather ineffective combination of protest and explanation.

Gale whips around. "Oh, can it, Cherry," he snaps, eyes like daggers. "She was getting them sponsors and you know it." He faces forward again while I stare blankly at him, disbelieving that he might come to my defense in this circumstance. The tears are still there but I keep them from falling, if only just, while I try to appreciate the gravity of what he has done. I can't do it, though, because the enormity of everything else that is crashing down around us will not allow me such a selfish indulgence. I feel a twinge of resentment about that, but I push it aside and save it for a time when I don't have to pray that our Tributes find a way to defy the odds one more time.

….

When Katniss and Peeta stand back to back with matching handfuls of _not-blueberries_, it is as if none of it makes sense. The entire scenario is unreal. She can't really be meaning to do what it looks like. _No. She wouldn't_. They're up to something else. Something that will get them home – get _her_ home. _She wouldn't_. She would not abandon her family.

Peeta Mellark had even done the noble thing, untied the bandage on his leg so the wound could bleed out freely, handed her a ticket out of the Arena. I have to give him that. She was Victor. But Katniss turned him down, and pulled out the berries. _She wouldn't_….

The hushed crowd watches dumbstruck as they lift their hands to their mouths in one last show of devotion.

I am left dangling by a thread, alone, my promise to survive rendered worthless by his offer to die. She is leaving me here with the shattered remnants of her family, and a meaningless but unbreakable vow to keep them safe. She is leaving her _sister_, her _own flesh and blood_, who begged her to try to win. I glance at Prim, see her shaking her head frantically in heartbroken disbelief, then at her mother, hollow and pale. _They're my family, too, and _I_ don't break promises, still won't, don't even _want_ to_… It's just that if one of use ever ended up in this position it was supposed to be because the other went down fighting. Not because one of us just chose to _fucking walk away from it_. _She wouldn't_…. But she _is_.

Then, suddenly, Claudius Templesmith booms frantically over the loudspeakers again. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the Victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you – the Tributes of District Twelve!"

Katniss and Peeta both spit out the poisonous berries at once, bending over to rinse their mouths with lake water. It still doesn't quite seem real. Probably because I wish it wasn't. I wish she hadn't made it quite so clear that she'd rather not come home at all than come home _without him_. That she is no longer the Katniss that I know. The relief that I feel as the crowd starts to cheer and the new Victors are lifted into the hovercraft is flat, colorless, cold. She is only coming home because some soulless bastard in the Capitol decided that it was better to have two Victors than none.

Next to me, Madge's shoulders slump as the stress seeps back out of her, her hands cover her face as she takes a moment to gather herself, and when her eyes finally come back up to mine the look of unbridled joy on her features hits me like an arrow. I just stare blankly back at her, struck by the sight of something so unabashedly beautiful in the midst of the world that is crumbling around me. She looks vaguely confused for a split second when she takes me in, and then with startling ease her eyes take me apart in an instant and the joy fades into something more heartsick yet no less lovely. Her lips part as if to speak but she seems to think better of it as her eyes flicker briefly over our surroundings.

"Do you want to be alone?" she asks at last, fixing me firmly with liquid blue eyes.

_Yes. No. Both. Neither. You. What? _ I force a weak shake of my head, because it's the only thing I can manage. She nods with strength and resolve for both of us, and pushes one hand gently into my shoulder. "Go. Before somebody catches you leaving. No one will see with all this. I'll make sure your mom doesn't need help with the kids."

In a haze, I work my way calmly through the crowd, reminding myself not to run, wondering if I ought to be pulling Madge along behind me. It's better that I don't. If I did, that would just make her a distraction. _She's more than just a pretty girl_. She's the one holding the pieces together. The one who wouldn't go away, who hasn't changed, even after I've given her a hundred good reasons to. The one who, by letting me be alone when I most need it, makes me know that I am not _alone_.

As I walk along the road back to the Seam, I think of the way she always looks at me now, always _really seeing_ me, and how she never demands explanations, because she already seems to _know_ – and I wish that there was a way for me to escape the bedlam that is the square _with her_ that wouldn't make her question why I want her here. I am escaping, but I'm still perfectly and utterly _ensnared_.

_And a footnote at the end, so I didn't spoil the chapter at the beginning – for those of you who thought "not far away" in the last AN meant "Next chapter" and were rather disappointed this go-round….Apologies. But it _does_ mean "not far away." I promise :) _


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note:**

**In hindsight, this ought to be two chapters. But it isn't, because it is after 1:30 in the morning and I am beyond the point of caring. So here is one long one. It's late; judge kindly of me.**

Saturday is a workday now, so I get a day of distraction after the Games end. I never thought I'd be grateful to have to go back there. It gives me time to gather myself before I go back to the woods. In the morning there is brief talk of the District Twelve Victors, but the mine has a way of sucking the joy out of everything, so it doesn't take long for everyone to sink back into sullenness. Which suits me just fine. Even those who know me, know that Katniss and I were friends, know better than to even offer condolences for the loss of the girl that I'm pretty sure everyone assumed I'd end up with someday. Hell, I'd even gone along and sort of started to assume it, simply because who else would it have been, anyway, if nothing had ever changed?

Well, that was then. And if I'm honest, not _everything_ that has changed has been for the worse.

By Sunday, I'm still not sure that I'm ready to brave the other side of the fence, but I have families to feed so it doesn't really matter whether I'm ready or not. Once I'm there, I try first to hunt but find the idleness required for that particular activity to be bothersome, and I realize with intense resentment that I'm back where I started a few weeks ago - except this time it is not directed solely at the Capitol but also at Katniss herself. So I move along to checking my lines, and it takes a while but the activity helps the bitterness to fade.

I take almost all of my haul home, since one day's hunting now has to last us the week and there's little to spare for trading. Only the items worth the most will I set aside to sell now that my paycheck will cover the difference. Today, I have a beaver pelt and a pint of strawberries. Then again, I'm not sure the strawberries count anymore. Part of me is disappointed that I don't get the chance to deliver them, though, because I decide that whether or not we are on speaking terms really doesn't have much bearing on whether Rory and I are _okay_. I can tell from the way he looks up at me when I walk through the door that he still feels slighted. I miss Madge, but I can't continue to ignore the wall between my brother and me, so I set the berries on the table as an unexpected treat (we seldom keep them for ourselves because the Mayor pays me so well) and pull Rory aside. And the beautiful thing about Madge is that she would absolutely approve of that decision.

"Listen, you understand why I don't want you going with me to the woods yet, right?" I say when he glares up at me with an uncomfortably familiar adolescent attitude problem. "If I didn't care, then I _wouldn't care_. Follow?" He rolls his eyes a little and gives a glum nod, and I remind myself that I love him _very much_. "So we'll compromise, okay?" His face brightens a little, and he is suddenly all ears. "You can keep fishing, and I'll teach you how to set some snares in the meadow, how I learned. We'll see how it goes, and go from there."

He is elated, but he tries to contain himself, likely to show me that he is capable of handling this responsibility; Rory straightens himself, looks me in the eye, nods with theatrically calm confidence. "Can we start today?" he asks levelly, and it's almost funny because I know the restraint is killing him. But not quite. I still wish he wasn't so eager. Somehow, it is like I haven't really fixed anything – I've just changed the problem. With a deep breath I pull a length of wire from my bag, knowing that I have somehow passed the point of no return; it is an uneasy feeling, but I'll need him eventually, especially now that I don't know how reliable Katniss will be once she returns, and I'd rather have him do _this_ than take out Tesserae. And I'd rather do it _with_ him than have him decide to do it _behind my back_. So we spend the afternoon crafting wire nooses.

….

I know it'll be a while before I get to see my father, since he is stuck at work making preparations for the return of the District Twelve Victors, so I'm glad that my mother is aware of the goings-on surrounding this year's Game because I desperately need to talk to _someone_ about all of it. If nothing else, so that I can keep my mind off Gale. I figured that his usual Saturday appointment would move back a day – like it did last week - since he is working the mine now, but I don't see Gale on Sunday. It doesn't surprise me, but it is a disappointment. Try as I might, I can't quite banish the image of him those last moments in the square, just after he watched his best friend attempt suicide on national television. Caught in a landslide of despair so crushingly absolute that I knew that there was nothing that I could do or say that could save him from it. I saw a bravely defiant girl on that screen above us, manipulating the Capitol's rules and proving that they cannot control her. But _he_ only saw her give up and abandon him and her family.

I'd have given anything to make him understand. He may still, eventually. But in that moment, when I saw his face, he was unreachable. So for now, all I can do is worry about him, and hope that I'll see him again.

I spend the weekend obsessing over every newspaper and magazine that I can find while I wait for Mom to recover. The very moment she is feeling better and I have a chance to be alone with her without the Capitol Media Team scavenging about, I throw my arms around her and tell her, "They did it, they won, _we_ won!"

She smiles, but cautiously, and reminds me, "The Games are just beginning."

"I know," I say, because she is right. "But this means they _can_. _This_ had to work before anything else could happen." I tell her what I've read in the papers and overheard from the reporters - how this year's audience loved the outcome of the Hunger Games, how no one can wait to see the victory interview when Katniss and Peeta will be reunited, how mention of Seneca Crane had been _conspicuously absent_ during all of it.

"That's a good sign if no one is talking about the Head Gamemaker," she admits, and it is clear that this kind of optimism is uncharted territory for her. "But I hope it's not a bad sign for our Victors that they are getting this attention."

My stomach knots at the point she makes; Victors always get plenty of attention, but this is a new kind of celebrity altogether. They had already tried quite deliberately to eliminate the Girl on Fire in the Arena simply because she had outshined all their favorites. This is the first time the rules had ever been changed, the first time the Capitol's had had been forced. The first time the odds were in our favor.

Suddenly, I wonder how much Katniss and Peeta know about our plans, and I ask her what she thinks. It had seemed from what we had watched of the Hunger Games that they were unaware of the deeper strategy behind enabling them both to win, everything had appeared so genuinely spontaneous, but it was hard to say because their own survival and the Rebellion's survival were so closely entwined.

"Haymitch wouldn't have told them anything," she says with the first thing like certainty that I've heard from her. "He may be playing the game, but he'll protect them first."

I believe her. Whatever my doubts about Haymitch Abernathy, he has done right by our Tributes, by _all_ of us.

….

When I go back to my first full week in the mine, I throw myself into my work with abandon. I hate it, but I hate it less than thinking about Katniss not being Katniss anymore and Rory getting closer to venturing outside the fence.

After the first two days, my body aches in places I didn't know could hurt. It becomes clear that even after the days that I had worked last week, I am still not acclimated to such grueling physical labor. It's going to take a while. Longer than I thought, in fact. And it doesn't help that _I'm_ half to blame for pushing _myself_ so hard. The morning of the third day, I awaken earlier than usual, coughing up black grime that feels like it comes from somewhere deeper than just my lungs. As a result, I resign myself to tying a rag over my face while I chip away at the walls around me. Some of the experienced workers on my team had recommended it since our managers do not provide us any means for keeping the ubiquitous dust out of our eyes and noses and mouths, but I resisted at first because I had already found the underground tunnels unbearably stifling in their own right. It's uncomfortable, but it'll add years to my life. Or at least a few months, anyway. By Thursday it is hard to get out of bed – not because I don't want to (that's not any different from any other day) but because I'm so stiff that my joints won't let me. It isn't until I am nearly to the mine that I can move well enough to walk without limping, and it occurs to me what a difference it had made that my first week on the job was broken up by the end of the Hunger Games. The day after that, my hands shake so badly that I have trouble buttoning my shirt, and I'm afraid to even _attempt_ to hold a razor near my face. Then, when I get home and Posy throws herself at me in a joyful greeting, my arms give when I pick her up and I nearly drop her. The concern that washes over her little face is heartbreaking. The post-Games Victory interviews come and go, but to be truthful, I don't pay any attention. By Saturday, I worry that if I couldn't pick up my little sister, there is no way I can handle a pickaxe, or worse a shovel loaded with coal, but I need to work to feed her, so I make it happen. I last to the end of the day by sheer force of will. And by reciting my brothers' and sister's names over and over through the pain. And remembering that Madge admires the fight in me. I ought to give her some fight to admire.

Once I drag myself above ground, I consider sitting down to rest for a few minutes before going home, but I'm afraid I won't be able to get up again. I stagger to the latrine instead so I can splash some water on my face, hoping to create at least the _illusion_ of feeling refreshed. I almost have myself convinced that it's working when I make the mistake of looking in the cracked mirror above the sink. I try to wash away most of the dark smudges from my face and hands, but there isn't much I can do about the dirt that is so permanently embedded under my nails that it probably wouldn't come out if I washed my hands in lye, or the dust covering every inch of my uniform, or the fact that I haven't been able to shave in two days. Or the way my legs can barely hold me upright. The defeated look on my face. _We are the walking dead – and don't I sure as hell look the part._

I think of how worried my sister – a four-year-old who shouldn't have to worry about something like this - looked when I couldn't pick her up yesterday, how carefully neutral my mother's face is when I walk in the door now, and the thought of going home to them in this state is unbearable. So I go back outside and find Bristel.

"Hey," I call after him; he is just beginning his walk home, and he hasn't put himself through the paces like I have so I can't quite catch up to him. When he turns to look at me, he may be moving better than I am but he looks about as bedraggled. "Can you stop by my house on your way home, tell my mom I'm not going home right away, so she doesn't worry?"

He eyes me curiously, but doesn't comment. In a way it's a relief, but on the other hand it's rather telling. "Yeah, okay," he says before turning to go again.

I'm not sure what possesses me to do such a stupid thing. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's finally being tired of being alone. Maybe it's the thought that getting kicked while I'm down is the most efficient way to handle all the disappointments in my life at present – no sense in dragging it out. If I'm not going home, I might as well go _somewhere_, and I head to town.

I rap a sore fist against the door and pray that the person that I am looking for is actually the one who answers. She had asked me not to disappear, but that was before she'd seen me at my worst. Before she knew what she'd be getting. _Might as well get this over with_. The door opens, and Madge's smile fades as quickly as it appears when she sees me slumped against the railing on the porch.

"Gale!" she says, surprised. "Are – you alright?"

I right myself slightly so I'm not leaning against the rail anymore, but I still feel a little lopsided while I search for an answer. I note rather absurdly that she is a perfect negative of me standing there, in an ivory sundress with her sun-and-sky ponytail and eyes, beautiful and vibrant and _kind_. Weeks ago I'd have found it infuriating, and now it's just….

She speaks again, and now there is only curiosity and concern in her voice. No irritation. No displeasure. _There's hope yet_. "What are you doing here?"

_That_ I can answer, and the words slip from my lips before I think better of it. "Calling your bluff."

She cocks her head slightly, as if caught unawares, and I brace myself for the awkwardly polite excuses and dismissal that I know must be coming. But after a second, she does the most extraordinary thing. In one fluid motion, she crosses the threshold and throws her arms around me.

I am so surprised by this that it takes me a moment to react; I circle my arms clumsily around her but then can't decide what to do with my hands, so I let one settle on her shoulder blade and the other at the middle of her back. She tightens her embrace just barely, and I finally give, relax, lean into her, letting her take some of the weight that I cannot. Madge doesn't budge. _She's strong_, I think as I let my chin rest on the top of her head.

I feel her voice against my chest as much as I hear it. "You're an idiot," she mumbles, and just like that, she wrenches a smile from me.

….

_Stars above, he feels good_. I drink him in for another moment, still not quite believing that I dared do this at all, wanting to memorize it in case I never get the chance again. Then the dread that had consumed me when I first saw him here tonight pulls at me again, and I lean back from him to look him in the eye. "Why didn't you go home?" I ask as gently as I can. _Is there something wrong, a reason that he looks so distraught? _ "They'll be worried-"

I stop when his faint smile vanishes and his storm-gray eyes fall away from mine. "I can't let them see me like this..." he says, his voice almost inaudible, his head bowed in shame.

My heart swells and breaks at once. It pained me to see Gale so exhausted and defeated – so _unlike_ himself – when I opened the door, but not nearly as much as hearing him say that he is afraid to let his family see it. But I also understand this to be an intimate show of trust that he would let _me_, an indication that he sees me not as someone high above or far below him but as someone who simply _has his back_. Before I can stop them my fingers ghost along the rough edge of his jawline, and my hand freezes in place when his eyes come back to me. We both stand our ground, neither of us shies away, but neither of us moves in, either; suddenly the moment is strung too tight between us and it snaps as his hands drift away from my back and I retreat half a step.

"Come inside and rest a while then," I offer, and when he nods I know that it's been repaired. My father and our reporters are back at the Justice Building making plans for Katniss and Peeta's return, and Rose is gone for the day. "I've got an empty house for once, except for Mom, and she's in bed already-"

"Oh," he sighs when I turn toward the door, "your dress…."

I look down reflexively and see that my once cream-colored dress is now dusted with a fine layer of soot from where it was pressed against his uniform. When I look back up at him, he appears caught uncomfortably between horrified and apologetic. I_ can only hope this is the first of many_, I think privately as I roll my eyes at his reaction, _and _you_ expect me to me mad about it_. "I really don't give a damn about the dress, Gale," I say. I walk inside and busy myself with retrieving a pitcher of iced tea and a pair of glasses, while I hope that he decides to follow. "Although," I add, "I probably ought to make sure I wash this one myself so no one is tempted to ask any embarrassing questions."

"You do your own laundry?" he says behind me, and when I twist around to glare at him I am startled to see that he has seated himself so quietly at the kitchen table that I'd have never known he had done it if not for the question he asked.

I nod in response, wondering at how easily he swings me from lovesick to comfortable to incensed. I make a strained effort to be fair about it though, because I know there is a part of him that cannot forget that we come from vastly different places. "Not always, but often." And I opt to change the subject immediately before I am tempted to call him an idiot again and really mean it this time. "Does anyone know you're here?" I ask, and I bite my tongue just before I offer to call his mother to let her know that her son is still alive. _No one in the Seam has a telephone; that would be a _brilliant_ way to end that conversation, Madge_.

"I asked Bristel to tell them I would be late," he says.

"Okay, good," I say as I pour a glass of tea. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

I find this hard to believe, but I don't press; the last thing I want is for him to latch onto a reason to see my hospitality as charity borne of pity. So I just set a glass of tea in front of him and try to decipher what questions are safe to ask as I sink into a chair next to him.

Gale eyes the beverage critically. "Did you spit in it?" he asks with a smirk.

"Twice," I deadpan, "just because it's yours."

He laughs at me, albeit a little weakly, and takes a mouthful from the glass. "Thank you, though, really, for this."

I shake my head and smile to tell him that no thanks are necessary. I flounder for a moment with what to do, because I sense that right now his family is an uneasy topic, and the end of the Games even more so, and his new job flat _miserable_. I remember how easy it was between us the night we sat in the meadow together and I think of my music, and the piece that had finally come together for me….

"Do you… want to stay for a little while?" I ask, suddenly shy and afraid that he might get up and flee. "Because if you do, I have something I want to show you."

He looks at me carefully for a second. "Sure."

I rise from my seat. "Come sit in the parlor," I say as I beckon for him to follow. "The couch is a lot more comfortable, anyway."

I cross the room to the piano, and lift the lid on the bench to get the sheet music for the piece I've been practicing. "For a long time I could never really figure this out," I explain. "I could read the notes but I couldn't get my head around it-" I glance up to see him standing unnaturally still in the kitchen doorway, and it hits me suddenly that I've never in my life paid any attention to the fact that everything in the parlor is _white_ – the upholstery on the furniture, the carpet, the curtains, _all_ of it. The pain and awkwardness in his expression makes me feel awful for being somewhat thoughtless. "Hang on a minute," I say, and I dash up the stairs and pray that by the time I come back down he hasn't vanished. I snatch a blanket frantically from the linen closet in the hall, bringing down several towels and a set of sheets with it, swear colorfully at the inconvenience, and decide that I'll clean up the mess later.

I shake the blanket free of its folds on my way down the stairs, and am relieved to see that he has not moved from his post at the door. "Here," I say as I drape it over one end of the couch, "if this'll make you feel better, I'll wash it with my dress. I'm _not_ making you sit in the kitchen." I turn back to the piano, and set up my sheet music while I try very hard to pretend that absolutely nothing awkward just happened. For a few seconds I worry that he might have left anyway, but a glance over my shoulder confirms that he has alit silently on the throw and is patiently waiting for me to put myself together.

"So," I continue, "I just – it makes sense to me now. I wanted you to listen, to tell me what it sounds like to you.…"

He rests one elbow on the back of the couch and supports his head with a lazy fist, as if to indicate that he is ready to listen. I start to play and I'm irrationally nervous; the first few bars come with difficulty, but I promise myself not to look at him and to keep my eyes trained on the pages in front of me. It seems like the composition takes three times as long to finish as it should. When finally I reach the end, he is frowning slightly, as if deep in thought.

"Again?" he asks, intent on solving this puzzle.

I begin a second time, and the notes come easier now, my fingers are less unsteady, since he has shown genuine interest. I am nearly three-quarters of the way through the piece when he speaks again.

"Crickets, frogs…." he says, and I pause instinctively over the keyboard, see that his eyes are closed in concentration. "A nighthawk and whip-poor-will?" His silver eyes open and pin me in place.

"Yes!" I finally choke out. "You just – I didn't get it for the longest time, it just sounded so _odd_ to me. And then you took me with you to the meadow that night, and it was _this_!"

He starts to chuckle at my excitement, and I feel my cheeks warm from a self-conscious blush. "Why are you laughing at me?"

"You're just so…." He grins waves a hand vaguely as if the word he wanted simply evaporated.

I shrug and smile broadly. "It's hard to explain. The name of it is _Night Music_. But I've played other nocturnes, and this is nothing at _all_ like them and I just couldn't understand it until _you_. And then it made sense." I look away because I am suddenly embarrassed, like I'm sitting here stripped naked, and I wish I could swallow the words that just spilled out.

"Play another one," he says.

I choose a prelude, glad for something to do and realizing that he does not mean to embarrass me at all. He had, after all, laid himself nearly as bare. Gale guesses rightly that it was one of the pieces that I had thought sounded like the stars in the night sky, and I am amazed all over again. He asks for a third song and I am thrilled to oblige, and when he comments that it reminds him of rain I imagine that this must be what it feels like for him to be _mine_.

Once I finish, he says that he should go home and as much as I know that he must I still wish that I could stretch the minutes a little longer. I walk with him to the back door, and tell him that he is always welcome to come back because I can't quite find the courage to tell him that I wish he didn't have to leave. He nods and a small smile pulls at his lips, and he lingers on the porch for a few seconds as if there should be something more to say.

"Sorry about your dress," he says, and my heart skips a beat because nothing in his voice says that he's sorry. He lifts one hand and I can't even remind myself to breathe as his fingertips trace the seam at the side of my dress from my ribs to my hipbone. He leans in close, and I believe he means to kiss me – not like the first time he walked me home and it was just wishful thinking, but I _truly believe_ that he might – but he doesn't. Instead, his lips just brush my skin as he speaks softly against my ear: "But, I have to say, you look good in gray."

He melts into the evening shadows, silent as ever, and is gone.

_Footnotes: _

_Nighthawks and whip-poor-wills are crepuscular (active during twilight – rather than day or night – hours) birds that are typically most talkative during the evening. They have distinctive calls – look them up and listen, because in combination with the musical footnote, Gale's insight will make a little more sense. And, of course, both species are found in the area where District Twelve is located._

_The piece that Madge calls "Night Music" is specifically Bartok's _Out of Doors #4 Night Music_. It was written to imitate the sounds of nighttime wildlife. If there is one piece of music that you decide to look up and listen to for this story, make it this one because, again, Gale's lines will make more sense._

_And if you are interested, Madge's "star" song is Bach's _Prelude in C Major for Piano_, and the "rain" song is Beethoven's _Moonlight Piano Sonata #14_. _


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note:**

**An early update! I crammed to get this done (and edited it from my iPhone, so bear with me...) because I wanted to get it posted. I know I promised to try to get back to a regular update schedule, but that was before I remembered that I was going on vacation - and I felt guilty when I considered making my readers wait until I got back. So if this seemed a little rushed, that's part of the reason. This is also my attempt to funnel some detailed scenes into a description of a longer passage of time, not something I do very often, so it reads a little weird to me. This was originally going to be several more detailed chapters, but that would have been just... Well, refer to the last 29.**

**So, as i shall be briefly dropping off the face of the earth, the next one will take a little while, but it will be worth it I swear! ;)**

The day that Katniss is scheduled to arrive back in District Twelve, I am given a few hours of leave from the mine. I am, after all, the cousin of the victorious Girl on Fire who famously promised the Capitol that they would get their show, so naturally I have to be there. Not because anyone cares that I might be glad to have her coming home alive, but because the reporters want another sound bite.

I wish I could tell them, in detail, what I think they should do with that microphone.

I also wish I could decide whether I'm looking forward to this, or dreading it. Since the end of the Games, the sharpness of my anger and sense of betrayal has worn, allowing a little more room to think that maybe she wasn't _really_ giving up; perhaps she was proving to all of Panem that she would rather die than let the Capitol force her to do something despicable, because killing Peeta Mellark (regardless of what I think of him personally) would have been exactly that. But then again, leaving behind the sister that relies on you is a high price to pay to just _make a point_. And, Peeta did offer to _let_ her win, to die without making her take responsibility, and she wouldn't have it. I'm happy that Katniss is coming home, but it's going to be hard to see that she didn't really _survive_ the Hunger Games.

The kids have been given the day off school as well, along with Prim of course, and they are getting impatient for the train to arrive. Even though we are edging into autumn, it's peak-of-summer hot today and there's no breeze to speak of, which isn't helping. Vick keeps leaning as far as he can over the edge of the platform to get a view down the track, and it's driving my mother crazy. Posy keeps asking Prim if she knows whether Katniss will be wearing her jewelry dress when she arrives, as if she expects her answer to change after the first dozen "I'm not sures," which irks Rory to no end because it means she is stealing half of Prim's attention.

The Mellarks arrive along with a few other people from town (_Cousins? _Real_ Cousins? Friends of the family?_) and they exchange brief, polite pleasantries with all of us standing here but they do not linger very long before moving further down the platform. I expect that any circumstance where the baker's family and the Everdeens will have to interact – and it'll likely happen a lot with the way the Games ended – will be unbearably awkward a best. Mrs. Mellark makes a point not to look at anyone as she stands behind her husband and sons, and for once I almost feel bad for her; she might be awful, but it can't be easy standing here after your dying son announced that your husband wanted to marry another woman on _national television_. Especially when that woman is waiting here with you for her own daughter.

Minutes later the reporters make their entrance, followed by the Head Peacekeeper, the Mayor, and a few other officials who have never merited enough of my attention for me to remember exactly what it is they do. And trailing along at the end of the line, with a handful of bright orange flowers, is Madge Undersee. I try hard not to stare, finally decide to hell with it, and settle with just being discreet. Her golden hair is pinned into an artfully messy knot behind her head, and while I miss the easy tumble of her ponytail it does flatter the graceful lines of her neck and shoulder. The bright sunlight makes her eyes glitter under long lashes. She moves like the ripples on a pond.

She is beautiful, and I wish it was any other time than _now_, because all I can think of is how badly I want to _mess it up_.

"Miss Madge!" Posy notices her and darts that way, thrilled to have someone new to pester.

Madge smiles brightly and drops to a knee to hug her, then places the cluster of flowers into her little hand. "I had a feeling you'd be here," she says, "so I brought these for you."

"For me?" Posy chirps ecstatically.

"Yep. And I thought you could give one to Katniss, too," Madge suggests. "You know, the Girl on _Fire_."

My sister gasps. "You're _right_," she says, utterly serious. "I'm going to." She skips back to Prim, and then my mother, to show off her gift.

"They're beautiful!" Mom says, and then she looks to Madge. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," She says with a shy smile, and then her eyes find mine. She watches me carefully for half an instant, and something in her smile changes in a way that says she means it for only me. It twists me up inside, and you'd think by now I'd have gotten used to that but I haven't. Then, because she always sees me so clearly, always seems to _know_, she moves on along the line to say hello to Mr. Mellark.

Finally, once someone catches sight of the train in the distance, the photographer from the media team starts arranging all of us strategically. The Mayor and all the officials to one side, Madge with them, Mrs. E and Prim and the Mellarks in the center so they can get the best photos, my family and the baker's friends at the back and out of the way. The rush of air that comes with the train is a welcome relief and he starts shouting instructions at us as the engine roars into the station, but no one can really hear him and we're all too distracted to care. It takes a few minutes, but people start pouring out of the open door; I recognize the Tribute Stylists from television, a half dozen assistants, a pair of men who look like government officials.

Then, I hear Effie Trinkett before she even steps outside. I wince at her shrill, affected voice; when I come across something in the woods making noises like that, I do the merciful thing and kill it. "I knew they had it in them!" she says cheerfully. "They were pearls! Just pearls!" She bustles out into the middle of all of us, a neurotic swirl of pink hair and blue eyeshadow, and starts in to a new round of (unfortunately audible) instructions. "Alright everyone! Mr. Abernathy…." I tune out, afraid that if I listen too long I may start bleeding from an ear, and concentrate on the fact that she can't drag this on forever.

Haymitch Abernathy appears after a moment and the Media Team, along with some of the Capitol people that just came off the train, ready their cameras the same way I draw a bow while I sit in a tree. Haymitch doesn't look quite sober, but at least he isn't fall-down drunk like he was on Reaping Day, and waves the District Twelve Tributes onto the platform without preamble. Katniss and Peeta step forward, hand-in-hand, into a flurry of flashes and applause and tears. Katniss looks healthier than she did at the end of the Huger Games but her frame is still too thin, her face too hollow, her eyes too haunted. I have to look away from her for a moment and give myself a chance to reign in the white-hot anger that burns through to the surface all over again; I can't stand to see what they have done to her. Then, when she looks at Prim, she breaks into an ecstatic smile as tears start to spill down her cheeks and she drops Peeta's hand to run over and throw her arms around her sister. Katniss chokes a little as she speaks. "Oh, I missed you, little duck!"

I watch her beam at Prim, and feel a tiny spark of hope. _ Maybe there's still a little left of the Katniss that I knew, after all_.

Her mother embraces her, the most affection that I've ever seen shown between the two of them, and tells her that her cousins are excited to see her, too. I worry as the faintest hint of confusion flickers across her face when her eyes land on me and my family, but she has the good sense to play along. The last thing she needs is to rouse the suspicions of everyone watching. Katniss smiles at us, and makes her way over to trade hugs with Mom and the kids, narrowly dodging the orange flower that Posy shoves in her face. She saves me for last and when she leans her head against my shoulder, she whispers, "Thank you."

I am on the brink of actually feeling happy, relieved, even a little sentimental, but her words pitch me back over into anger. _For what?_ I want to ask. _For holding up my end of the bargain while you conveniently forget that there ever was one?_ But this is neither the time nor place to berate her for her decisions. There may never be a time or place. I remind myself that I'm not standing here with a girl but the remnants of a person who may never quite remember what she used to be. She doesn't need my resentment or disappointment. So, because I love her, because she is part of my family, because I _don't break promises_, I say nothing and force what little of a smile that I can.

….

I am certain that with Katniss here I won't ever see Gale again except when might drop by with strawberries or something else to sell. I had begged and begged for my father to pull me out of school so I could be there when she returned, and was ecstatic when he relented. But as happy as I was to see her again, it was difficult to see her with Gale that day; there may be nothing romantic between them, but it was plain to see that he was hers in ways that he will never be mine. Even though I try hard to remember how he had looked at me before he left last Saturday, as if dangerously close to tipping the scale from friendship to something more, I can't shake the feeling that without a void to fill he will forget whatever was happening between us.

But he doesn't forget. At the end of the week, when I hear a knock at the back door I rush to answer it first, _just in case_. My reward is a tall, tired, miner worn and ready to collapse, and there is nothing more that I could want. He smiles through the weariness when he sees me and asks if I need a break from my houseguests for a while. He could have asked me if I wanted a break from an eight-course dessert-only dinner and I'd have said yes.

"You have no idea!" I declare in my best _Effie Trinkett_, and it makes him laugh so hard that I fear that someone inside might discover us, and he complains that it hurts. I wish that we could go back to the meadow again, but it's a long walk and then he'd have to walk me back, and I don't have the heart to make him do it as exhausted as he looks. "You don't want to come in right now, believe me," I tell him. "Let's sit outside tonight. Give me just a minute." Inside, I take a moment to peek through the doorway into the parlor to make sure that everyone is busy enough that I won't be missed, then snatch two peaches from the basket on the table as an afterthought.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back," I admit when I return, but he looks at me so oddly that I almost believe that my doubts were unfounded. I shoo Gale off the porch toward the garden, and immediately rethink sitting on the bench there – the spot can be seen from almost every window on this side of the house, and everyone inside knows who he is. "No, no, not here. If they see you, they'll want to talk to you again…. Nobody will bother us back by the trees." He follows me to the tall elms clustered at the back corner of the yard behind the vegetable garden, and we each choose one to lean against as we sit down.

"Have a peach," I say, tossing him one of the fruits. I bite into my own, finding it far riper than I expect; juice gushes – _gushes_ – down my chin and, since I fail to lean over quickly enough, the front of my shirt.

I am thoroughly embarrassed, but Gale finds this to be rather funny. "Can't take you anywhere," he says with a snicker.

I glare at him, and I'm sure the mess I've just made of myself somewhat tempers the effect. "Well, it's a good thing you didn't then, isn't it?" I grumble.

He takes a bite of his peach nonchalantly, without incident, and looks at me appraisingly. "How could I?" he asks, a faint hint of mischief in his level tone. "I mean, do you even _own_ a hairbrush?"

My mouth drops open at this insult, and he can no longer maintain his cool expression as a grin twists his lips. To be fair, my ponytail isn't exactly perfect at the moment. But that's not the point. He didn't have to _say so_. "Do you even _own_ an iron?" I retort immediately, incensed. "I mean, your mother does _laundry_ for a living, for crying out loud!" I actually know for a fact that the Hazelle has an iron. She'd been using it the day I had dropped by with Prim to share Mr. Mellark's cookies.

"Hey, I've been working all day," he says, still amused.

"And I've been stuck waiting on a houseful of people with a combined IQ equal to the rabbit-eaten cabbage we fed them at dinner!"

He chuckles a little harder. "You are so much fun to piss off," he says, and for some reason it makes me smile.

"You're lovely company yourself," I say.

"You fed them a rabbit-eaten cabbage?" he asks, his voice weak from laughter.

"It's not like I'm going to feed them one of the good ones!"

He laughs so hard at this that he nearly tips on his side. "Quit!" he pleads, clutching his ribs with his free hand. "It hurts again!"

"Yes, _that_ will encourage me to stop."

We banter back and forth in the shade until we lose what is left of the daylight, and he gets up to go home. I tell him to jump the fence rather than risk a stroll past the windows again, and he wishes me luck with explaining the state of my shirt.

"Easier to explain than coal dust," I tell him.

He looks at me through narrowed eyes as if making a very careful decision, and I get that familiar, _enticing_ half-smile of his. "No, I'll go easy on ya tonight," he says as if he's doing me an enormous favor, "since you don't have the place to yourself this time."

As I watch him walk away, I wonder (_hope_) if this will become something of a routine. Maybe he can still be mine in some ways, even if they are small. Wanting that is unwise, I know, because in the end it will never be enough, and I'll only end up lovesick and brokenhearted and full of doubts. But he is such a beautiful kind of misery.

Through the week I count the minutes until Saturday again. School passes the time, and I am even allowed to attend a few of the special events planned for our Victors. I get the chance to talk to Katniss more, because of everyone surrounding her save Peeta and Cinna, she knows me best. She is struggling with all of this, it is clear; she has come back to Twelve, but she hasn't really been allowed to go _home_ yet. So I try hard to act as if there is nothing different between us. There isn't really, I suppose, not on the surface. Not that _she_ knows.

Katniss' eyes follow Peeta protectively whenever he is not at her side, though I'm not sure that she realizes it, as if still worried that something awful could yet happen to him as he hobbles about and practices walking with his cane. Still she mentions Gale once or twice, when we get a few moments alone between the prying questions of Capitol officials, and how she just wishes that she could trade her dress for her old jacket and bow and go hunting with him in the woods where she could be _herself_. Hearing her say his name with such affection brings a pang of jealousy each time, and I am ashamed of it. I decide not to tell her how friendly he and I have become; it seems like it would be too uncomfortable.

Cinna and Portia, the genius stylists that set into motion the events that changed the Hunger Games this year, make the Capitol presence in our home bearable. They are intelligent, down-to-earth people and I quickly learn why Katniss and Peeta are so fond of them. Portia asks if she can borrow me as a model a few evenings a week, so that she can play with the new hairstyles that Cinna had shown her.

"There isn't much to do with hair when your Tribute is a boy," she tells me. "Cinna gets to have all the fun!" I happily agree, glad to have something else to do to occupy the hours that trudge by. It becomes clear that her offer is simply a ploy to share the news that she and her partner have heard from the inner circles of the Games. It would be too suspicious for a pair of _stylists_ to spend inordinate amounts of time in meetings with the Mayor when there are so many other officials milling about – but an hour or two of girl talk here and there is innocent enough. She tells me that Seneca Crane's days are surely numbered while I watch her braid my hair creatively in my vanity mirror.

"They're a little upset about that defiant little stunt they pulled," she says with pride. "He's in deep for not standing up to them. They're saying that they're already talking about Heavensbee taking the reins in case the position needs filled."

By the time the weekend rolls around, it feels like someone managed to cram a few extra days into the week, and all day Saturday feels like a whole week all on its own. While I wait for the knock on the back door (which I am still not sure will come at all) I make a point to pin my hair up neatly, and make sure that not so much as a strand escapes because, you know, _just in case_. Sure enough, Gale appears on the porch again, and he suggests that I bring an apple this time because it will be less messy. We sit under the elm trees again until sundown, and I tell him a silly story about how I used to pretend that they were a real forest when I was little because I never got to see the real thing, and he tells me about the first time he ventured outside the fence. Then, when I turn from him after I say _goodnight_ to let myself in, I feel half my hair spill down my back. I freeze for a second and sigh in annoyance (must something embarrassing _always_ happen?), until I feel his fingers slide several pins into the palm of my free hand. "I was only teasing you, you know," he says softly, a smile in his voice. "No more of that – you don't look like yourself." And he disappears before I can fight through the wave of vertigo.

Gale still comes by on a few Sundays, but he doesn't miss a single Saturday evening. Often, we sit outdoors, and occasionally we stay in when everyone else goes to the Justice Building or Victor's Village. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we argue playfully, sometimes he listens to me play the piano, and sometimes we just enjoy the quiet. Sometimes he flirts with me, and others he needles me relentlessly, but his silver eyes always watch me so carefully as if I am some mysteriously happy surprise. Once, seemingly on a rather uncharacteristic whim, he embraces me before he leaves and smiles at the mess it makes of my shirt. There are days that I wonder what he's about, and others when I am all but certain that there is a chance that he could be mine after all. Always it is comfortable between us, and as the weeks pass, the _just in case_ fades away. He is always there.

Until the last of the Capitol visitors leave, and things begin to return to the way they were. I sit and wait at the kitchen table, sit and wait, sit and wait. The certainty that I had allowed myself to entertain only makes for a longer, slower, more painful fall. There is less of a void to fill now and this Saturday, Gale finally forgets.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note:**

**(Drumroll)….I'm back again! As always, thank you to all of you who read my story, and extra special thanks to those of you who recommend me! And extra **_**extra**_** special thanks to those who review **_**every single chapter. **_**I know I'm not very good at replying very often (it's hard to keep up **_**and**_** and update regularly) but I read **_**every single review**_**, and take them all very seriously.**

**Also, at the recommendation of Ooyeteri, I looked at the Gadge tag on Tumblr. It took me a while to figure out, (anything I had ever looked at on there had been sent to me in a link), but - WOW! All of the love my story is getting there makes me think I ought to start an account. That may take a while, too, though, as I don't really understand how all of it works – but stranger things have happened, I guess : ) So, special thanks to all my newly-discovered, very awesome Tumblr people as well!**

Katniss is home again, but she may as well be a thousand miles away as far as I'm concerned. I hardly get the chance to see her, and when I do it is only for a moment at a time and under the close scrutiny of visiting Capitol officials. One evening, during the public celebration held in the town square - in the very place where she was Reaped - I get a few seconds to say _Hello_ before she is swept away with Peeta Mellark for photos, and once there is no longer any attention directed toward me I go home, because there really wasn't much to celebrate. On the first Parcel Day after her Victory someone decides that it would make a great television propo for her to personally deliver a box to her famously devoted cousins, so I let the kids take center stage for the event while I stand in the back to make it less obvious that I'm still not willing to try very hard for the camera. Other than that, Katniss' time is monopolized by appointments and banquets and ceremonies to which I am never invited. In truth, I don't mind. It's hard enough seeing her leashed like an expensive pet from afar; I don't really want to see what they have done to her _up close_.

So I go about my business because it gives me something constructive to do with the anger and the sadness. I still go to the woods on Sundays because my family still has to eat, and I keep practicing with Rory and his steadily-improving wire snares. I get up each morning and go to work, and after a while it doesn't exactly get better but it stops getting worse. I go home each evening and give my mother a break from my brothers and sister. And Saturday nights, well, those are mine – and I give them to Madge.

After the first evening I had spent with her, I had been sure that there would be no question that she was not a distraction, not someone conveniently present to fill some empty time. Until the second Saturday - when at the last moment I had convinced myself to steel my nerves, tell her that thinking of seeing her again was the only thing that got me through the week, snatch her up in my arms and _show_ her - she had dashed my plans to pieces with a single, brutally simple phrase: _I wasn't sure you'd come back_.

It was startling how much it hurt to hear that she was still skeptical. Especially since she clearly didn't mean for it to cut the way that it did. It hurt enough that I knew with unfaltering certainty that I didn't want to ever feel what it was like to _lose_ her. Suddenly, in the space of one awkwardly fractured moment, I had to start from the beginning with her again. And the most shocking thing of all was that I was willing to do it without a second thought. For anyone else, I wouldn't have considered it worth the trouble. Somewhere along the way, as she went from being more than just a pretty girl I couldn't have to a girl that maybe I _could_, it started to actually _matter_ and whether she was pretty didn't have a damn thing to do with it. It was that spark of fire in her that I didn't want to miss and had me so tangled up.

Starting over, I have to admit, required more restraint than I expected. That Madge is beautiful might not be the thing about her that has me so ensnared, but that doesn't mean I don't _notice_. We could have had a _lot_ of fun with that peach.

As the weeks pass, some of the shyness in her fades and each time she sees me she is less pleasantly surprised and more simply pleased. Still I take my time with her, the knowledge that her trust in me is yet a fragile, fledgling thing fresh in my mind each time a certain way that she smiles at me or cocks her head or bites her lip dares me to move too quickly and ruin everything. When she plays the piano for me, I find that I have to look away and just listen because watching her fingers dance over the keys makes me wonder what they would feel like against my skin; when she finishes and I think that I might have the control to turn back to her she fixes me with those dazzling azure eyes and I can't fathom how I ever managed to look away in the first place. Once, when I get her so riled with an especially enjoyable round of teasing, she smiles around gritted teeth (because she is a remarkably good sport, I'll give her that) and lets out a frustrated growl as her head falls back and her fingers tangle in her hair to keep from strangling me – and all I can think about is how I want to make her do it _again_ under very different and even more enjoyable circumstances. And oddly enough, the most enticing, alluring, _intoxicating_ thing about everything that Madge does is that none of it is done with any coquettish intent, there are no games being played; everything is genuine, honest, _real_.

Finally, after I pull her to me before I leave one night, I decide that I'm finished with patience and restraint, and when she is reluctant to let go I sense that she is, too. "Better," I say as I give her newly-mussed shirt an appraising once-over, while I promise myself that the next time I see her I'll do this _right_.

For the first time in weeks I go home after work on Saturday instead of to town. I expect my mother to finally ask what I've been up to (so far, she had only given me knowing glances when I'd been late, like she had an inkling but was choosing to bide her time) but she doesn't. I think she figures that if I'm not coming in drunk or bleeding or both, then she ought to be glad that I'm not sulking around the house anymore. She does look surprised to see me, and when I tell her I'm here to retrieve Rory she raises an eyebrow as if to say _That's a Sunday thing_.

"I have a lot to do tomorrow," I explain, "and I don't want him to be disappointed." She just gives me that little smile that makes me want to say _Oh just ask already!_ But I let it go, and whisper that she doesn't have to worry much about Rory because there is absolutely no chance that he's going to catch anything yet.

I had promised my brother that I'd help him set a few real snares in the meadow this week and he had been so thrilled at the prospect that I can't go back on it and risk destroying the delicate truce we've established. I would _usually_ save it for Sunday after I finish hunting, but it occurred to me that _that_ should be the time I ought to give to Madge, at least this once, when I would be less exhausted and even get the chance to clean up a little better than just washing my face and hands in a very dusty, very old latrine. I want to bring her back to the meadow because she had loved it so much, but it wouldn't do much good if I fell asleep the second it got dark. Rory listens carefully as I try to articulate how to choose the best places to set a trap, while I struggle to keep ahead of the persistent unease that comes with teaching him something dangerous. It's hard to explain something that you _just know_, and even harder when you have good reasons not to want to do it. For his part, he is positive that he'll find a slew of rabbits in the morning.

Sunday I get up early, allow Rory to accompany me far enough to check his snares, try not to appear overtly elated that he is discouraged when he finds them all empty, and then as usual to head to the forest alone. My time spent here will be easier today, I know, because the solitude that used to gnaw away at me has lost its teeth. I'm not really _alone_, after all. I wonder if Madge would dare follow me here sometime. I could never do it (I can barely stand to think of bringing Rory under the fence). But it makes me smile all same – _she would_.

The welcome smile fades when I reach the end of the familiar path to my snare lines. Katniss sits quietly, on the smooth, flat rock where we used to meet. She is in her old shirt and hiking boots, her hair has returned to its usual long, simple braid. But something is missing from her yet, and the sadness comes back in a rush because I know I am only seeing a ghost; if whatever they had taken from her is still gone even when she is here in the woods, then it is gone for good. I wait for a few minutes, wonder if I should go back and pick another path through the trees. The angry, bitter part of me says to leave her here, but the part of me that loves her won't let me do it. Katniss is still my friend, or perhaps more accurately _I_ am still _her_ friend, and I don't break promises. Then her eyes come up and she makes the decision for me when she jumps from her seat and throws herself into my chest, and all I can do is hold onto her while she cries because she needs someone to do it.

Eventually the sobbing eases and she is overtaken by a fit of hiccups, and I let go of her so she can retrieve a water bottle from her bag. I watch her carefully until I am sure that she's got the pieces together, and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all. She offers to share the food she packed and we eat breakfast, we trade stories about goings-on in town and in the Seam, we check the lines and wait for game, just as we had done for so long before. _Before_. But this is now, and the woods have become _my_ place - I've worked hard for that - and even as we go through all the familiar motions I have to try hard to make room for her again. Here and there, I get a glimpse of what she used to be, a flicker to make the ghost almost seem a living thing, and it makes the trying a little easier. She needs something to be like the way it was, even if it's only _almost_, so I stay with her until the late afternoon because it's the right thing to do.

By the time we head back to the fence it almost seems possible that we could close this distance between us, and it's a comfort because I miss the Katniss that I used to know so well. But when she makes a point to _tell_ me to take our entire haul for myself – something that I expected her to let me do, though tacitly – there is the implication that some part of her _feels sorry for me_, and I know that there is a space separating us that will never be bridged. I look at her for half a second, what I left of this girl I used to think I would end up with, and it is heartbreaking to be so angry and resentful because if nothing had changed I wouldn't have been _unhappy_. Even if I wasn't _in_ love with her, I loved her. And now I just love her because of what she used to be. Because it's the right thing to do.

I have to let go of this, of the memories, of the grief, of _my_ Katniss, and in a sudden flood of emotion I take her face in my hands and press my lips against hers. It startles her, and she stands there wooden and unyielding, still so far away. "I had to do that, at least once," I say before I turn away from her, relieved to finally find this closure. A kiss goodbye. And I slip under the fence and away from her, because I have someplace that I need to be.

….

I spend all of Sunday trying to keep myself busy so that I _don't_ spend it wondering if Gale will still decide to show up. Wishful thinking, of course. He's hard to forget. I feel stupid for being so heartbroken over his absence, and even more stupid for knowing this would happen and letting myself get caught up in it anyway. After a while, I can't decide which feels worse – the heartbreak or the stupidity. After I make a few rather pathetic attempts at playing the piano and find that it has become difficult because it only reminds me more of him, I try to at least talk myself into being angry. The one thing that I could always fall back on to soothe my troubled mind doesn't work anymore, and probably won't for a while at this point. I get close, but I don't quite make it. Because, in the end, I just _miss him_.

If nothing else he had become my friend, and let's face it – I don't have many of those. It felt good not to be so lonesome for once, even if I was more _his_ than he ever was _mine_.

Once my music proves stubbornly elusive, I try to read a little, sifting through yet another stack of newspapers and magazines for any hint of progress on our plans for Seneca Crane. It's hard to concentrate, especially because there is virtually no mention of the Head Gamemaker – a good sign still, considering the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games were the biggest sensation in all of Panem since the Dark Days, but it doesn't do much for my wandering mind. I go outside for a while, hoping the fresh air will clear my head a little, but that doesn't work either. Too many memories and false hopes bubble to the surface. Back inside, I resign myself to housework; Rose will appreciate the head start when she comes in tomorrow and I still owe her anyway. Doing laundry nearly brings me to tears, but I remind myself that I still haven't really earned the right. Slamming the door to the mudroom helps a little, but then I feel a bit guilty because my mother isn't feeling well again and is trying to sleep, and then a bit embarrassed when my father pokes his head out of his office to ask if I'm alright. I decide that washing the windows will be quieter and less emotionally taxing (there I go feeling stupid again – _how pathetic is that?_). I work my way upstairs, and am relieved to see that my mother is still sleeping soundly so I don't have to worry about having to answer more questions.

Eventually I know that I shouldn't put off cleaning the kitchen floor any longer; it's my absolute least favorite thing to do, and though I'd promised Rose that I would do it for her I had made excuses for weeks that it was pointless while there were still so many people staying here and coming and going all the time. I'm halfway through sweeping the dust and dirt into a pile when my father reappears and announces that he has been called into work at the Justice Building.

I perk up at this, hoping that he has some kind of good news to share.

"They didn't say on the phone," he says, as if that is a fair indication that it may be the case, "but you'll be the first to know."

My mood improves some once he leaves because I expect him to return later with a good story to tell. Maybe Seneca Crane is set to be tried for treason. Portia had said that there were rumors that it may happen soon… and in cases involving treason, trials are just for show. I fill a bucket with soapy water and start a quick mop over what I've just swept while I go back and forth between trying to decide if official charges against the Head Gamemaker would be something for which Mayors might be called to work on a Sunday, and if I can get away with cleaning the floor without actually having to move the table out of the way. I suppose the one is possible, but after seeing that the mop really hasn't done much good, it is clear that the other is not. I chastise myself for waiting so long to take care of the floor, because if I'd have just done it sooner it would likely have required half the effort; even after sweeping and mopping there's _still_ going to be a lot of scrubbing to do. As I scoot the table to one side and scrounge up a brush, I wonder if perhaps something has happened with District Thirteen. _That_ would definitely be grounds for an emergency meeting. But Thirteen was supposed to be coordinating with our plans, waiting with us for the right moment – not acting on their own. The old apprehension tightens its grip on me again like an invisible noose: _Do they know?_ Had the Capitol learned that the events of the past few weeks were no accident and decided to go on the offensive, to try to eliminate the only factor that levels the field between us and them?

I'm getting carried away quickly, I know, but for once I'm glad for my overactive imagination. It's keeping me from thinking about Gale. And the fact that scrubbing a floor on my hands and knees is rather uncomfortable. _No wonder she tells me to do this when I offer to help, _I think_, this is miserable even _with_ knees younger than hers_. For the first time, I wonder not just about the health of our fragile rebellion but also my own safety while I grind the brush into a particularly nasty spot in front of the sink. If the Capitol knows, could any of it be traced back to me? How plausible _is_ my deniability at this point? I mentally tick off a list of people who know about my involvement as I work my way toward the ugly space in front of the stove – my parents and Portia, but that likely means Cinna as well, and Haymitch Abernathy, too. Does that mean that there could be others? By the time I scrub my way around to the floor by the pantry, I sincerely wish I wasn't quite so good at worrying.

I'm just getting back to my feet when a sharp knock at the back door startles me so badly that I nearly fall over. I can hear my own heart pound as I stare at the door, debating whether I ought to answer it. _Now I'm just paranoid. This is ridiculous_. I gather my nerves and grab the knob, open it a crack, peer tentatively outside.

_Gale!_ I throw the door open and smile at him as all the doubt and sadness that had been hanging over me shatter and come crashing down. "Hey," I say softly, because real words won't come. I realize self-consciously that my clothes are a mess and I am up to my elbows in soap suds, but I hope that _how happy I am_ will make up for it.

His gray eyes watch me closely, just like they always do, and a little smile pulls at his lips. Then his forehead creases slightly as if he is surprised or thinking hard about something. "You scrub your own floors?" he asks with mild shock.

Maybe it is just because the last couple of days have especially trying and I'm not in a particularly patient mood, but his question has me seeing red so fast that all I can do is stand and watch as my temper takes off without me. "Yes, Gale," I say rather snottily. "I scrub my own floors, I weed my own flower garden, I do my own laundry, and believe it or not, I actually wipe my own ass!" And with a firm flick of my wrist I slam the door in his face.

Once the door is back between us, I am instantaneously horrified to have all but _screamed_ something so crude at the man of my dreams. Then again, I had thought that we were beyond his assumption that I am some kind of helpless, spoiled little brat. _Except I just behaved like one – maybe not helpless or spoiled, but definitely a brat_. It's his fault, though, for asking that at all; I might never have been quite so _rude_ about answering his stupid questions before, but I never exactly concealed the fact that I was annoyed by them either. He ought to have figured it out by now. _I_ never make any remarks about his life in the Seam, and none of the normal, everyday things _I've_ seen _him_ do have surprised me. I imagine what his reaction would be if _I_ asked something so asinine. _You use a fork and knife when you eat? You take a bath every day? _Not that I've _seen_ him take a bath, of course. Although it wouldn't be a bad thing, except it _would_ be, but in a good way, which is a very distracting track to follow, enough that it gets me thinking that I ought to go back out and apologize, and that is supremely irritating because I was busy being _angry_, dammit, and _he_ should be the one to apologize for being an idiot, a tall, handsome, _well-built_ idiot….

In a fit of pique, I spike the scrub brush into the bucket on the floor and create a geyser of dirty, soapy water that splatters the cabinets, countertop, and me. I loose an exasperated sigh because now I've made a mess – literally and figuratively – of everything.

This is when I hear another knock. I'm not sure if I am relieved or infuriated by it, but I whip the door open, mentally girded for battle.

"That wasn't fair," he says flatly before I get a chance to attack first.

I cock my head and narrow my eyes, because he cannot _possibly_ have just said what I think he did. "What?"

"Yelling at me and slamming the door in my face. That wasn't fair." Now he has the gall to add a note of annoyance to his tone.

"Oh, okay," I concede sarcastically, "but acting so shocked that I do chores just like _everybody_ _else_ in the world – _that's_ fair. As long as we're on the same page."

"How does being surprised to see you scrubbing your kitchen floor _offend_ you?" he asks, still annoyed but also genuinely befuddled.

"_Because!"_ I say as I turn and trudge back inside, because it's hard to look at him while I'm saying it. "Because I thought we were past this. You thinking I'm some kind of snob."

"I didn't say that –"

"But you _acted_ like it!" I snap, whirling on him again. He has stepped quietly across the threshold, as if understanding that the open door means today there is no one here to catch him, but he keeps his distance from me. Then I just shake my head. "I thought maybe, after all this time, you…." I can't finish the sentence because it's too embarrassing to say in front of him.

Something in him changes, though, his eyes narrow and he takes a half step forward like he has just stumbled on a very obscure but tempting trail. He pauses there, perfectly frozen, beautiful and calculating, and suddenly I cannot tell whether I am looking at the predator or the snare. "I what?" Gale asks softly as mischievous grin starts to do wonderful things to his mouth. I never thought that playing the role of _prey_ could be such a heady thrill. He closes the space between us with slow, steady steps and backs me against the counter, hovering over me by mere inches, almost close enough to touch, but not quite.

My entire vocabulary evaporates.

He leans down by the tiniest degree. "I _what_, Madge?" he prompts again, voice barely above a whisper.

"I thought…." I take a shakey breath because a sudden pain in my chest reminds me that I have lungs. "You'd see me differently," I hedge, still too terrified to admit anything deeper than that.

Gale slips one arm gently around my waist, rests the other hand against the side of my face, lets his fingertips slide into my hair; unconsciously I lean into it while my pulse roars loud and fast in my ears, certain that this time he'll do it, this time he'll-

"Differently how?" he breathes, drawing me in closer still.

_He's going to make me _say_ it_, I realize_, he isn't going to let me off so easily_. But I want this so badly that need drowns out the fear. "Maybe enough that you could _want_ me."

The most deliciously wicked little laugh escapes him as he says, "_Wanting_ you has never been the problem." I soak up all the little details of him while he draws the moment into a thin, taut wire; he smells of woodfire and autumn, he feels like sun-baked stone. Then, as his lips catch mine, I can't notice anything else about him except the way he kisses me.

He tastes like New Year's Day.

….

I break away from her for a moment just enough to see her reaction; Madge opens her eyes slowly, sways just a little on her feet, lets out a tiny, trembling breath. _Bullseye_. Her hands slide up from where they rest light and flat against my chest to fist in my collar, and it is clear to see that the fire in her hasn't waned a bit as she pulls me close again.

"Gale," she says, "I was beginning to think you weren't _ever_ going to do that."

For a fraction of a second I consider teasing her a bit – _is that what had you in such a bad mood?_ – but her lips are too perfect, her skin too soft, her body too inviting to let my attention wander.

I lean down to kiss her again, and the world falls away. There is only Madge, this impossibly tangible, silky knot of fire and sunlight and warmth. She shifts her weight slightly and fits herself to me; I marvel at how well her figure aligns to mine, as if it were made for just this purpose. I tighten my hold on her, let the kiss become a little more daring, skim my tongue along the soft curve of her lower lip. She slips her arms all the way around my neck and arches into me; a soft, needful sound issues from her throat, and it is the most bewitching thing I have ever heard. I withdraw from her again, eager to stretch this out as long as I can, to enjoy how acutely responsive she is to every move I make.

This is even better than I imagined. And I've been doing a _lot_ of imagining lately.

"No, don't stop," she gasps, nearly dismantling all of my already battered self-control.

"Oh no," I say as I lean my forehead against hers. "You already ruined my plans for today. I'm _taking_ my _time_."

Curiosity gets the better of her. "Plans?" she asks.

"I wanted to take you back to the meadow, sit under the stars for a while since you liked it so well, do _this_ without picking a fight." I touch a light, teasing kiss to her lips. "But _no_, you had to slam the door in my face."

She chuckles quietly. "We can still go," she offers. Then her eyes flicker downward as if suddenly self-conscious. "But I should probably clean up first."

I lean back from her a little, and that fast I miss the pressure of her against me. Some of the water from her clothes has seeped into my shirt. "Probably. I like it better when _I_ get to make a mess of you." She blushes prettily at this, and I wonder how I'm going to let go of her. "But I have to ask, though - what happened after you shut the door? You're soaked."

Her answer is unvarnished and matter-of-fact. "I threw my brush at the bucket while I was pretending it was your face."

I start laughing, glad to know that though things are different between us now, she is still the same. Just like she has been from the beginning. Somehow, knowing that she won't even change f_or me_ is the greatest kind of comfort. And, after all is said and done, she still takes me as I am. She wasn't wrong, I suppose, that first night I walked her home. We aren't exactly night and day. More like two sides of the same coin.

….

Gale takes me to the meadow and we sit under the stars just like he planned. I worry at first that it will be awkward between us for a while, but the words and smiles and laughter come easily like liquid from a tipped jar. I confess that I missed him last night, and he tells me that he thought he owed me an evening where he wasn't dusty and worn out. I ask him to point out the stars that he knows again, and this time he hooks his arm around me and leans me back into his shoulder as he does it. As a result, I retain nothing about what he tells me except the way his voice hums in my ear and the warmth of his breath on my skin.

After a while his fingers knot carefully in my hair and he tips my head back with a gentle tug as he twists himself around me and kisses me again. I feel as if my bones, still charred from the first time, have been set on fire anew by the joy of it, and I am amazed that he can elicit this reaction from me with such apparent ease. His patience soothes my rattled nerves; he is in no hurry, and it is a relief because no one has ever kissed me like this before. He is content to savor each moment, as if tasting something rare and precious for the first and last time, and it gives me the chance to learn with him. The learning comes easily, though, because I am surprised at how my body already seems to know how to move with him, my lips how to respond to the cues they get from his.

He breaks the kiss a century too soon, and gives me a second to regain myself before speaking. "That's how it was _supposed_ to happen."

"It was perfect," I say, "but I think the way it _really_ happened fits us even better."

Gale smiles so brilliantly that I can hardly believe it's real. He pulls me against him tightly, bows his head into my shoulder, and whispers "That's how I _know_."

_Additional Author's Note (to avoid spoilers at the beginning again)_

_Over 30 chapters and a hundred thousand words – yes, it took _this_ long. Thank you to everyone who has stuck around this far! I myself am not a very romantic person, so this was tough to write. (Tension? _That_ I can do. Romance? Ummm….) So I hope it's not terribly underwhelming after all the build-up. But I think it works for the characters. _


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note:**

**For those of you who were worried at the end of the last chapter – nope. I'm not done yet. The plan is to write all the way through the Hunger Games series. This is unfortunately wayyyyy less fun than the last update, but important stuff is happening that cannot be skipped. Gotta move the plot forward so more fluff can happen :) And as always, thank you for reading, and for all the lovely reviews!**

It's Monday but I wish it was Saturday again already, and for once it doesn't have anything to do with getting a day off work. In all honesty, it has everything to do with how good she felt. I want more time to learn her intricacies, to test the sureness I had felt. Sureness doesn't _really_ require testing, I admit, but _damn_ it was fun. Madge was far from the first girl I had ever kissed, but she was the first girl that inspired me to pay such _minutely close attention_.

And I thought I missed her when all we did was _argue_.

"For someone stuck in a hole a mile underground, you're in an awfully good mood." Bristel pauses next to me with his shovel long enough to shoot a curious glance my way.

I frown at him. "What's that supposed to mean?" _ Is it _that_ obvious? How much has he figured out? _I'm only just now getting comfortable with having this conversation with _myself_. I don't want to have it with Bristel.

"Every time I look your way this morning you've got this little grin on your face," he says, heaving another pile of coal into the bin. "You and your girlfriend fightin' again?"

My frown becomes a full-fledged scowl, but I'm actually glad that he says _your girlfriend_ instead of blurting out _Undersee_. The last thing I need is for half the mine to latch onto a rumor that I'm involved with the Mayor's daughter, whether it's true or not. Bristel is a pain in the ass, but he is my friend; he won't say something to get me into trouble on purpose. "This again?" I groan while an admittedly smug little part of me thinks _Hell yeah, we're fightin' again._

Bristel shrugs. "I'm not saying I _blame_ you. It'd do wonders for _my_ mood."

The man working next to him overhears, and snorts a small laugh. I scowl at him, too.

"Who says it's because of a girl?" I say, hoping that he'll move on to another subject even though I know he probably won't.

"It's a _guy_?" he asks with shock so convincing that the laughter starts again in earnest, and others join in. "I have to say I never thought-"

"Bristel, seriously, why can't I just _not_ be miserable for once?"

He rolls his eyes a little as yet another shovelful of coal crashes in to the bin. "You're not exactly famous for your chipper personality, Gale. So if it isn't a _girl_, then what is it?" He says _girl_ as if he means a very specific one, and he asks the question as if putting me in a position where I'll have to acknowledge that he guessed right.

He _did_, though I won't admit it to his face. What I have with Madge isn't something I'm willing to cheapen by sharing the details. Plus, I'd rather not start any gossip that could get back to Madge's father (because fathers are protective of daughters and I'd like to live to kiss her again) or Katniss (because she and Madge are friends, and she and _I_ are awkward enough already, thank you). But thinking about Madge gets me _thinking_….

"Yeah," says the man behind Bristel. "If it's not that, what's got you over there smiling like the cat that got the canary?"

I give them my best knowing smirk and wait a beat to tempt everyone's curiosity. I need to be careful not to speak too loudly; they take the bait and I draw them in a few steps. I think of the things that Madge had said while the Games were still ongoing, how angry she had been at the cruelty of it, how similar her sentiments had been to mine. "I was just thinking… if they can change the rules for the Hunger Games, anything can happen. The rules can change here."

….

It's a full day before I see my father again. I am glad for this, because though I am a very good liar I am not sure whether he would have believed the excuse I had prepared for being so late Sunday evening. Or, rather, I'm not sure whether I could have wiped the deliriously stupid smile off my face while I told him that I had been visiting Katniss and had lost track of time.

I got some time to relive each excruciatingly perfect moment with Gale without being interrogated. I spent another night in bed unable to sleep, but this time it was because my lips still burned where they touched his, my skin still tingled as if branded where his arms circled me. It was astounding how every sensation lingered with me long after he was gone. How finally getting a taste of what I had wanted so badly did nothing by whet my appetite. I got some time to put myself back together before it became obvious to anyone why I was so (pleasantly) out of sorts.

My father surprises me when he arrives not long after I come home from school, because he is always late on work days. He tells me that he will have to go back to the Justice Building but had given some excuse to get away for dinner so he could share the news, and he immediately invites me to follow him to my mother's room to talk. I worry that this may not be a good idea since she is still so touch-and-go; she spent most of yesterday barely conscious and though she is better today, she still hasn't made it out of bed. _Then again, talk of rebellion may be just the tonic she needs…. _

Mom smiles weakly at me when I walk in the door, then sits up a bit when she sees my father behind me as if his presence indicates that something is amiss. _Amiss in a good way_, I hope as I take a seat on the edge of her bed. He shuts the door carefully, leans back against it, and looks like he isn't quite sure how to begin.

"Is it Seneca Crane?" I blurt out, struggling to keep my voice low, but impatient just the same.

He shakes his head. "No, not yet," he answers. "But everyone still seems to think that's only a matter of time at this point. Things are playing out _there_ the way we wanted them to." A loaded pause indicates that something else has not. A hundred awful scenarios play out in my mind in the space of that second. "We need to be very careful."

"What is it." My mother's voice shocks me with its quiet intensity. There is no question in the way she speaks, only demand.

"District Eight," he says. "The workers in one of their mills tried to go on strike."

….

I don't say anything more about changing the rules in the Hunger Games. It was a dangerous thing to say at _all_, so I let it lie. Enough for now to plant the seed. A fire that starts slower burns longer and more reliably; if it flares too quickly, it dies before it can really _catch_. We go back to working in silence again, but this time it's a different, loud kind of silence. The kind of quiet that only happens when people are thinking carefully about something. When something about the way they see the world is upended.

It isn't that it hadn't occurred to anyone yet. I'm sure it has. It's that I said it _aloud_. It's that they are beginning to see that they are not _alone_.

I had promised myself that I'd make the mine manager's lives a living hell, that I'd put the fight in me to good use once I found my footing here. I've found my footing. And even more than a rule change for the Games, _Madge Undersee actually wanting me back_ is the thing that makes me begin to think that anything is possible. She admires the fight in me, and that's exactly the spark I need.

….

I don't know what I find more alarming: the notion that things have started happening beyond our plans and faster than expected, or the fact that he specifically used the word _tried_.

"What do you mean _tried_?" my mother asks solemnly, as if reading my thoughts.

Dad sighs and moves to the chair by the window. When he sits down the sunlight makes his face look ashen and aged. "There were… rumblings right after the Games ended, from what I understand. The reports are still inconsistent but apparently it was enough that they felt the need to step up security. People were arrested, curfews were enforced, those kinds of things. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, the sort of thing the Capitol orders from time to time even if there's no reason."

I suddenly appreciate the fact that no one cares much about Twelve. Those kinds of orders never find their way to our district, but in others it seems that they are a matter of course. I try to imagine what it must be like to live in a place where the Capitol randomly tightens its grip on its citizens just to remind everyone that they are the ones in control.

"It didn't fix the problem, though," he continues. "Somehow, someone let it slip that a group of factory workers were going to try to convince their teams to stop production and protest working conditions and demand better pay."

"Who?" I ask. "Did someone really let it slip, or was there someone spying on them?"

"Hard to say," he says. "It's possible either way. In any case, those suspected of making the plans were arrested quietly at the end of their shift on Saturday. Yesterday, they were all executed." He leans one elbow on the armrest of the chair and holds his head in his hand. Suddenly, this has all become very real. And concretely dangerous.

"How many?" my mother asks softly.

"Fourteen," he answers. "Three of them were Reaping age."

_Children. They executed children_.

"Publicly? Does the rest of Eight know?"

"No. None of them had told their teams about the plans yet, so the Capitol gave orders for it all to be handled discretely to prevent the news from spreading and creating more discontent. Presumably, some excuse will be given for their disappearance and nothing more will be said."

"What about Chenille? Did she know?" Chenille Bennett is the Mayor of District Eight, and has been supportive of the rebel cause. My father says that she did not, and wouldn't have allowed something like this to happen so soon, before we were more prepared. They start to talk about what may happen now that things are progressing on their own much faster than we anticipated, and I know I should be paying closer attention but I've stopped listening.

I'm stuck on something he said a moment ago. Some excuse will be given. _Like what_ –_ an accident at work?_


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Note:**

**It appears that I spoke (wrote?) too soon about getting back to a more regular update schedule. Apologies. I'd go through a list of excuses but it's painfully long and quite a few of them aren't very good anyway. And then once I **_**did**_** have the chance to write, I had to reread most of CF for a refresher, and then all of my own story because I started losing track of my **_**own**_** canon (sad). So I'm trying, guys, I really am – I just want to do this right and being thorough is time consuming. As always, thanks for all the lovely reviews and encouraging support – it's honestly the only reason I didn't end up going a whole month between updates. **

Katniss continues to drop by from time to time even though all the Capitol sponsored events are over, and though I am glad for the company and happy to know that we were actually friends all along, I cannot help but feel awkward underneath it all. I avoid mentioning anything to do with the Hunger Games, mostly because I expect that she doesn't want to discuss any of it but also because I cannot let on that I – and others – saw _defiance_ along with love in her final moments in the arena. For her sake and for mine. I avoid mentioning anything to do with Peeta Mellark because the few times I ask how he is doing just to be polite it seems to make her uncomfortable, as if she is having trouble letting herself care. Because something about the discomfort makes it clear that she _does_. I avoid mentioning anything to do with Gale and that is embarrassing in itself. But _not_ telling her what is going on between us seems less embarrassing than _telling_ her.

And on top of all of that, I have to find a way to sit and talk with her while I wonder whether her father's death was an accident or an execution.

Half of me wanted to ask my parents directly, and the other half reminded me that I ought to have learned by now that ignorance is bliss. What would I have done if I found out that it wasn't an accident, and worse, if my father _knew_ about it? Somehow I knew that I ought to decide how I would handle that information _before_ I actually get it, so I kept my mouth shut. And I still haven't been able to decide.

Our interaction is a struggle at first, because we both need something normal but neither of us are quite sure how to do it. It takes a few tries but we learn eventually. Katniss tells me that she has to choose a talent to develop in her newfound free time as Victor, and isn't sure what to do because the only thing she is good at (hunting) is illegal. I offer to teach her to play the piano (because technically that's the only thing that _I'm_ good at that isn't illegal) and she agrees to try – which gives me something to do besides wonder what exactly happened to her father. She learns to play a scale without too much trouble, but says she'd rather listen as I play an actual song. I don't use any of the music I play for Gale, because that is _ours_.

It gets harder when Katniss invites me to have dinner with her family toward the end of the week, and I have to face not only my friend but her sister and mother. Their kindness helps some, but I wonder if they would still be so kind if they had the same questions floating around their heads that I do. Still, I can't help but enjoy the chance to spend a little time as part of a family, even if it isn't mine and I have to pretend. And then, in the end, even _that_ makes me feel guilty; I miss my parents because they are often absent, not because they are _dead_.

I spend all day Saturday at the piano because everything that was so difficult with Katniss will be more so with Gale. I practice a series of challenging drills that I despise, but hating them probably just means I need the practice sorely, and it keeps my mind from wandering too much. Katniss' wasn't the only father to perish in that explosion. And, more than that, Gale spends his week in the same place himself now. The thing that makes it so worrisome is one of the things that I love about him – his determination. If something like what happened in Eight were to start happening here, there is no doubt that Gale Hawthorne would be first in line. We haven't heard any rumors of uprising or rebellion here in Twelve, but _would_ we? Seeing him learn to hope had been such a beautiful thing to witness, because he had seemed to think it so impossible at first, and it used to make me happy to think that maybe I had a part (however small) in giving that to him. Now, I almost wish I could take it back. Because hope could make someone like Gale very dangerous. And the Capitol has made it abundantly clear how they prefer to deal with threats.

….

Madge is waiting for me on the porch when I arrive on Saturday evening, and I find it a bit disconcerting because she has never done this. I pause for a moment to look at her before she notices me; she sits on the bottom step, perfectly still, eyes downcast, somewhat folded into herself. Still lovely, but a far cry from the sharp, animated, _ferocious_ Madge that I have come to know. I wonder what is wrong.

Her eyes dart up when she hears the latch on the gate, and when they land on me she comes to life. I can't help but smile at the sight of it, the way she brightens and moves like sunlight on water. _This_ is the girl that I missed so much. Madge meets me halfway down the garden path and I pull her close against me, eager to feel the way she fits me again. _How have I managed to go a whole week without this?_ After a moment, she exhales deeply and I feel her speak against my chest.

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too," I confess, slightly surprised by my own honesty.

She leans back to look me in the face and she seems tired. She holds my gaze steadily, though, intense and observant as ever. _Worn_, I note, _but not weak_. I look as her curiously, tilt my head and cock an eyebrow to ask a wordless question.

"I'm okay," she says reassuringly. "I just worry about you."

For some reason this response surprises me. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn't it. "What?"

"You…" she trails off for a moment, as if searching for the right words, "think you're invincible. I like that, but it makes me worry." She pulls away and leads me back toward the porch.

This makes me laugh a little, because I like hearing that she likes it. "Don't worry about me," I say, because I _don't_ like seeing her distraught, even if it's only a little. But there's still something about it that makes my heart skip a beat at the same time. Something that makes everything that has happened between us seem even more real than before. It wasn't long ago that I never believed that she'd give me so much as a second thought. "Being invincible means you don't have to."

She smiles a little sadly, as if I am foolish to make light of it. Which I probably am. But I don't think she realizes the strength that she has given me of late. "What you do is dangerous, Gale," she says, "so I'm going to do it anyway."

"Stubborn," I grumble teasingly as we top the steps.

She stops short and stares up at me. "And that from _you_," she says before opening the door. I laugh at her because there isn't much I can say in response. She softens a little, moves closer to me again, but remains serious. "You walk a fine line, Gale, and you walk it _well. _ Just… be careful. I don't want you to stop. That wouldn't be _you_. But _I'm glad you're here_ - I want you to keep coming back."

All joking aside, I know she has a point. I work in a place that has claimed countless lives. I hunt illegally to feed my family. I (proudly) manage to commit treason on a daily basis with the things I say and do. I should have starved, or been crushed in a cave-in, or been executed by now. So far, I've scraped by largely unscathed – but I am still acutely aware that it's all very dangerous. Especially now that my brother is on the edge of it, and I don't want him walking the same line that I do. And since I started carefully working toward getting others to think they won't have to walk it either. I've made a life out of cheating death. And you can't do that without a little trace of fear, like it or not.

"I'll keep coming back," I tell her.

….

I wonder if I've made my point sufficiently. Once he realizes that I was serious, Gale seems to take my words to heart. But I still can't help but worry that someone who gambles his life so often out of sheer necessity might have a skewed perception of _risk_. I had considered whether I ought to tell him what I know, but it was hardly a debate; I know him well enough now to know that it would never have inspired him to keep out of trouble. If anything, it would have done the opposite. So I settle for being vague. Gale is no fool; I know he is too shrewd to do anything blatantly reckless, but I hope that hearing me say that I want him to be careful will make him more cautious even with things that are not. In the end I know there is nothing I could say that would hold him back if rumors of rebellion reach his ears. I wouldn't change that. We are more alike in that respect than he knows. I just want him to _survive_ _it_ if it happens.

I start water on the stove for tea; the evenings are getting cooler now and I want something warm when we go sit outside. While I do this, Gale chooses a seat at the kitchen table and watches me carefully, almost as if trying to decipher whether he has me convinced. I must still look a bit skeptical. "I know how fine the line is, Madge, believe me, and walking that fine line allows me to keep others from having to do it. So I'm not going to screw it up. _Me_ doing it means _Rory_ doesn't."

I give him a small smile over my shoulder, because that does make me feel better. Then Gale asks me if I remember the day that I told them about the training scores and his brother had left his freshly-caught fish on the table, and when I say that I do, he surprises me when he begins to tell me about the rift that it had opened up between them. Rory wanting to help contribute, Gale wanting to keep him sheltered. Bitter arguments and festering grudges. An unsatisfying compromise.

I amazed at the fact that he is so willing to share these cares with me, this brick wall of a man. Though his manner is calm and matter-of-fact, it is clear that this conflict has weighed heavily on him. Part of me wants to offer words of comfort, but I know that there is nothing that I could say that could make any of it easier for him. So I remain quiet and let him talk. I decide that it is the highest sort of compliment that he would take me into such confidence. By the time he tells me that he was selfishly pleased that his brother failed miserably at catching anything with his snares, the water has begun to steam and I pour us each a mug as I listen. "I know I'll probably have to let him do it eventually, but the longer I can make it alone, the longer the odds are a little more in his favor," he says. "So I'm not going to screw it up."

"I know you'd never just do something willy-nilly and ruin everything you've worked for, Gale," I tell him. _ Like keeping Rory out of Tesserae_. I pull a jacket from the hook on the wall as I wave him toward the door. "I'm just saying –"

He interrupts me by taking the coat from my hands and replacing it on the hook. "I'll keep you warm," he says casually as if it was silly of me to have considered using it, and for a split second I forget how serious our conversation is as my heart flutters in my chest. "I hear what you're saying," he continues as he steers me back out the door. "And I'm _telling_ you _how_ _aware_ I am that the things that I do are dangerous. I'm telling you that I have good reasons not to screw it up. So don't worry."

I give him a look that says that I can't make any promises on the matter.

He stops short and gives me that familiar hard stare. "I don't think _you're_ hearing _me_," he says with just a trace of exasperation. He glances away, searching for the right words, and when his gray eyes come back to me I lose track of everything else. "I'm telling you that I'm careful, that I would be _anyway_." It seems to take effort for him to speak. "So _that_ isn't what I meant when I said I'll keep coming back." His gaze softens a bit, becomes almost pleading as he watches my face, as if hoping that I'll connect the dots on my own.

It takes a second, but I get there. He is telling me that this is more than just fleeting, novel attraction between us. He is telling me that I _mean_ something to him. The flood of joy that sweeps me away is almost painful. Because now I am more terrified than ever. Now I truly – _truly_ – have something to lose.

….

I spend the evening propped against one of the Undersee's old elm trees with Madge nestled into the crook of my arm. There is no more talk of worry, and she does not press me for more about why I will keep coming back. I look down at her while she rests her head back on my shoulder and take in the little details of her; the waves of her golden ponytail that turn up in curls at the end, the slender fingers circled around her mug of tea for warmth, the shape of one long, silky leg kicked out along the length of mine… It's a wonder that such a bright, beautiful creature would be content to sit here like this with me. But somehow she is. I hope she doesn't _wake up_.

Madge elbows me playfully in the ribs when I tease her about how she had wanted to wear a jacket, which is exactly the reaction I had hoped for because it leads to a lighthearted shoving match. It ends when I pretend to let her win for a moment, then pull her back against me and kiss her, the taste of sassafras and honey all the sweeter because it is on her lips. A delighted squeak escapes her when I twist her body across mine and pin her gently to the ground. I pause long enough to see her smile at me and bite her lip in anticipation before I kiss her again. Her arms slip further around my shoulders, and I never thought I would like being so tangled up.

I stay a little later than I usually do on Saturdays, because when she is with me it seems that the sun never quite sets. Finally I pull her to her feet when I can't put off leaving any longer, and she smiles mischievously as she thanks me for keeping her warm. I give her one last, slow kiss and hope that she can _feel_ the things that I don't have the words to say. She does, I am certain, because she always reads me so well. Because she has taken me apart and she _knows_ and she has put the pieces back together better than the way they were before. There is nothing that could happen that could keep me from coming back.

_Footnote:_

_For those curious readers out there: Sassafras is a fragrant tree native to most of the eastern United States, including the area where District 12 is located. All parts of the tree have been used for all sorts of things, from medicine to root beer. When used fresh, it has a sweet lemon scent and flavor. A word of caution for those inspired to try it in their tea - it contains a chemical that is a suspect carcinogen, so if you want to taste it find something sassafras _flavored_ at the grocery store._


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks again for reading and reviewing – your kind support is what keeps me writing! More apologies for more delays… but this time it wasn't all my fault! Nasty weather knocked out the internet for four or five days. We had electricity, miraculously enough (because nobody else did), but nothing else. I tried to remind myself that I survived just fine for a very long time without the internet…. BUT OMG NEVER AGAIN PLEASE! **

Sunday morning I find Katniss waiting for me in the woods again. This time, it's easier. Not easy. But easier. Closer to what it used to be. For starters, she doesn't burst into tears when I arrive. So I go about my business like last Sunday didn't happen. She seems to be comfortable with this arrangement also, so I decide to be grateful that we have some common ground between us again. I don't want to dwell on the past anymore. I let all of that go last time.

Well, except for holding a grudge. I decide that holding a grudge doesn't specifically count as dwelling on the past, which is a stretch I admit, but it's not going away anytime soon and that's the best rationalization I can come up with. She abandoned her family, which is something that I can't forgive. But, because she is like family to me, I'll work around it during the time we spend hunting.

Rory seems to have forgotten that he failed miserably with his snares, and is ready to continue practicing. I suppose I ought to be pleased by his stick-with-it attitude. It could be worse, I guess. So I keep helping him, which he appreciates, and remind him that I'm still not taking him to the woods anytime soon, which he does not. While we butt heads, I wonder if I annoyed my father this much when I was his age. In truth, the answer doesn't take much thought: _probably more_.

During the week, I work at learning how to function in the dark, cramped mine tunnels without relying on the mental distractions that have become such a habit. It's hard at first, because I don't like paying such close attention – or any attention, for that matter – to the foul maze that has me trapped so far beneath the earth. The steady mantra of _Rory, Vick, Posy_ never completely stops, but it fades into the background; thoughts of Madge shift from keeping the darkness at bay to inspiring me to focus on it. I can't be distracted if I'm going to listen for whispers of revolt.

She'd probably be irate if she knew that, after she had made such a point to tell me that she worries about me. But it makes me smile because I know she'd be pleased, too. _She admires the fight in me. _She'd tell me to be careful, and to keep going in the same breath. I'm not quite ready to tell her about it yet; no sense in making her fret more until it's really worth it.

In the evenings, my family takes note of the fact that my mood has improved significantly (maybe not from bad to good, but at least from bad to _neutral_). All except for Posy, that is, who has finally started school and now has too many new, exciting things to tell me to notice that anything else is different. Vick takes it in stride and seems to view it as an opportunity to get away with more than he usually does. Rory is suspiciously puzzled, probably because I'm still pretty consistently crabby with him on Sundays. I'm fairly certain that my mother figures that it has something to do with how I spend my Saturdays, but she still doesn't ask. I suspect that she thinks I spend the time with Katniss now that she is home. As long as she doesn't ask, I'm not going to correct her. I know Mom wouldn't explicitly disapprove of Madge, but I'd likely get a lecture about wasting my time or getting myself into trouble or both. I already know that I'm flirting with trouble, but let's be honest – I have a pretty comfortable relationship with trouble, and I'm pretty good at not actually getting into it. And when I am with Madge, when I see the way she looks at me, I know I'm not wasting my time.

Saturday, I fall apart when Madge answers the back door, just as I have – little by little, more and more - for weeks now. It's not a bad kind of falling apart. It's more like walls coming down. _Like rain_. I have found an ease with her that I had never thought possible, and it is unexpectedly liberating. She listens carefully, knows when to speak and when to stay silent, pushes back when I push her, gives as good as she gets; I have found that it is more than just the curves of her figure that fit me. It's one thing to be so captivated by the fire in her, and another thing entirely to discover that it _works_.

….

With every week that passes, the waiting gets harder. I still read every newspaper, every magazine, every scrap of printed paper that find its way to my house. I take to watching the news on television despite the fact that I cannot stand the sight of the Capitol reporters showcased there. Nothing. I catch the occasional update on the Star-Crossed lovers from Twelve, Katniss' progress as a fashion designer (her piano skills proved hopeless so Cinna bailed her out, she told me) and Peeta as a gifted painter – but information of any real substance related to the Hunger Games is simply nonexistent. I wonder if perhaps they have decided not to discipline Seneca Crane after all. Where would that leave us? Any plans we had hinged on his ouster at the least – and ideally, his execution. Dismantling the Hunger Games, the one thing that the Capitol uses to keep its districts cowering in fear, is the key to a rebellion, and we need an insider at the helm of next year's Quarter Quell for it to be possible.

The only thing that reassures me is the knowledge of the events in District Eight. There is no way that Snow would let him go unpunished after something like that had happened, I am certain.

Though reassuring, that knowledge is a source of worry as well. News of that kind would never be publicized, so I ask my father continuously if he has received word that similar occurrences are being reported elsewhere. He tells me that there have been rumors of dissent in a few other districts but nothing that could be documented, and definitely nothing that had actually _happened_. I tell myself that the less likely it is that it has happened somewhere else, the less likely that it's happening here. The fact that it is much too soon to take action against the Capitol is not my only concern, but it is the one that I present to my father as an excuse to keep bothering him about it.

The afternoons that Katniss spends with me are a welcome diversion. I enjoy the company because it is something that I don't get very often, and it gives me something to do besides worry about the rebellion and Gale. Thoughts of her father's death still gnaw at the back of my mind, but with time I learn not to let them interrupt our friendship quite as much. I have yet to find the courage to ask for answers on the matter.

Sometimes I wonder if she realizes the impact she has had on the world around her. She doesn't know about the happenings in districts outside of Twelve, of course, or the hushed turmoil surrounding the Head Gamemaker. But does she know that her actions have given so many people hope? She is always careful to no talk about the Hunger Games directly, but sometimes she lets a hateful remark about the Capitol slip and I think that she might perhaps have inkling. In the end, I suppose that she doesn't; Katniss is still too consumed with working at a normal life (or something like it) to be able to see such far reaching effects. She holds herself together pretty well, but there is something about her that says a lot of her energy is still devoted to coping with past horrors.

I all but count the minutes until every Saturday, and true to his word Gale keeps coming back. It has become more than just missing him; it's hoping to see him alive and unharmed again. I still struggle with whether I should tell him at least some of what I know, and I still always decide that silence is the thing least likely to put him even more in harm's way. Sometimes it's like beating my head against the wall, and sometimes it's like picking a lock, but slowly he becomes more open to me and it is something that I don't want to lose. The ties that bind us go beyond breathless, stolen kisses – the intangibles between us are the things that make me _mean_ something to him, and him to me. I am learning that the most terrifying thing about falling is love is not the fall. It's beginning to believe that he is falling, too. Because it is all about who you love, and how they are taken from you.

…..

As the weeks go by, hunting with Katniss remains just this side of awkward. I find myself sitting the woods on a work night once or twice just so I can do it alone, because I so badly miss being able to enjoy it. I even debate asking Madge to come with me sometime. She would like it, I'm sure; more than once she had indicated that she was curious. I would like having her here, and the surprising thing about _that_ is that it doesn't come as much of a shock as I thought it would. I could still enjoy the forest without being alone. I'm still not willing to risk getting her into trouble, but I find myself wondering if there's a way around it - being outside the fence is a crime, true, but it's not a death sentence like hunting technically is. I wouldn't hunt while Madge was with me, wouldn't but a bow in her hands. Most of the things that worry me so much about bringing my brother along wouldn't necessarily apply to her.

Rory continues to pester me about learning to shoot, and gets worse once he actually catches a rabbit in the meadow. To shut him up, I offer yet another compromise: I won't take him now in the fall because rutting season is too dangerous, and not during the winter because the cold can be a threat as well, but come springtime maybe we'll see. In the meantime, I hope the snare-setting exercises will work to my advantage. The rabbit he caught was already dead when he found it; with any luck, when the day comes that he finds one still alive and he has to dispatch it himself, he won't have the stomach for it.

The mines are quiet for a while, but slowly, quietly, others begin wondering how possible it might be to start working for changes. If two Tributes forced the Capitol's hand into altering the rules for the Hunger Games, what could a whole mine full of workers accomplish? Little is said at first, the whispers come few and far between, no plans are suggested. Thrilled as I am to hear even idle talk, I choose to remain silent and just listen. Taking action too soon would be counterproductive. With time, more people join in, and the hushed words come more frequently. No one seems ready to organize anything yet, but ideas begin to float around here and there – a strike, a protest…. Nothing concrete, just rumors and hearsay, but enough that I know that the spark is beginning to catch. I know it will be a while (probably a long while) before anything actually happens, but I make sure that when others around me speak of it I let them know that I agree.

I still spend all my Saturdays with Madge, and even a Sunday evening from time to time when I can. The cooling weather gives me a convenient reason to keep her close to me, but the times it gets cold enough that we go indoors she makes it clear that excuses are unnecessary. I'm still not quite comfortable in her home but it does get a little easier; Madge seems completely oblivious to the fact that I'm completely out of place, and it helps to see that she truly does not look at me that way. When I kiss her, it stops mattering, because I forget where I am altogether. Each time I do it she becomes a little more sure of herself, willing to take a turn at taking the lead. Sometimes I challenge her for it and sometimes I give in; always none of it is ever quite enough. I never tire of the feel of her pressed close against me, or the sound she makes as I tighten my arms around her, or the way her eyes smolder when she dares me wordlessly to kiss her again. Every night I see her it gets harder to leave.

Finally I decide that as accepting as Madge has been of me, it isn't entirely fair to keep her at arm's length. If she has become so tangled up in the things that are my music, I ought to let her see them. I walk a fine line very well, and I could get away with it with her. At the end of the day, if I'm honest (and I might as well be, since it seems to have become such a habit when Madge is involved) it's less about being fair, and more about finding one more way to stay close to her.

….

One day after school, when Katniss tells me a story about her time in the woods, I say that I wish I could see it firsthand. I've long been curious about what the world is like beyond the fence, and even more so after hearing Gale speak of it so often. I had hinted about my interest but he never acknowledged it, much less invited me, and then after hearing about his concerns about his brother I sensed that he would refuse if I asked directly. But when Katniss realizes that I am genuinely interested she lights up at the idea.

I follow her to the place where she slips under the fence, and hope that she doesn't notice the blush that warms my face when I see that it is not far from where Gale had taken me to watch the stars. I don't have long to dwell on that, because a new source of embarrassment becomes immediately apparent; Katniss slithers through the low spot in the ground and under the chain-link with lithe ease, but I am neither as slight nor as practiced as she. At some point I am bound to get stuck, and though it would be a little humiliating I could live with that – it's the thought that feeling trapped would make me panic that bothers me.

"You have plenty of room," Katniss says reassuringly, but when she sees me eye the shallow hole with doubt, she loops her fingers through the fence to pull the space a little wider. I scrabble under without too much trouble but there's no question that I make it look a lot harder than she did.

Once I'm back on my feet I can appreciate the sudden sense of freedom that comes with standing a few feet away from where I was before. From knowing that there are no cameras here like there are in the square, or microphones like the ones hidden in the walls of my father's office. No Peacekeepers. No television screens. No _Reaping_.

"Come on," she says, waving me on to follow her to a narrow path in the treeline. She leads me along the little trail, and of all the things here that could amaze me it is the trees that surprise me the most. I feel a little silly because it's not like I've never seen a tree before – but I've never found myself in the middle of so many of them. It's almost like being inside a cage, but without the sense of imprisonment, and suddenly I feel very, very small. The leaves have turned vibrant shades of yellow and orange and red, layered over and over against each other, deeper and denser than anyplace inside the district. A light breeze sighs through the canopy as birds whistle overhead. Fallen debris crackles as a squirrel bounds through the undergrowth. The air smells clear and clean, like cut grass and fresh water. Everything is full of color and sound and _life_.

Katniss stops to give me a moment to look, smiles at the way my jaw falls slack. "A little different from what fall looks like inside the fence, huh? This is probably the best time of year to see it for the first time." There is a note of pride in her voice, as if she is pleased that I am so impressed.

I can see why she – and Gale – likes this place so much. I tell her so.

Her smile broadens at this and she nods, starting down the path again. "This way," she says. "I'll show you where we go for the trap lines. There's all kinds of stuff to see."

The trail widens a bit as it winds through the trees, though I still have to pay close attention to where I put my feet because it remains uneven. For Katniss it's second nature, though; her practiced steps never stumble, and only slow down when she notices that I start to lag behind. This is her second home, it is clear, familiar enough that she could navigate with her eyes closed. We pause again at a broad, flat rock overlooking a shallow vale and to my virgin eyes the view is no less than breathtaking.

Katniss starts pointing in various directions. "This way goes along the snare run, down the hill. There's a creek down there, at the bottom. Once you get down there, if you head back up a little ways on the other side there's a small pond where you can fish. If you go far enough that direction, there's a lake, but it's a hike to get there. And over here," she says as she heads toward a fallen tree to our right, "this is where I keep my bow."

As I move closer I see that the tree is hollow. She squats down and peers inside, and then (to my horror) reaches one arm in up to her shoulder. I'm not certain that there is _anything_ that could inspire me to shove my arm into a dark, rotting log. Bare-handed, no less. Katniss withdraws her limb unharmed, however, pulling free a narrow leather quiver of arrows and a long, curved bow. They are starkly plain compared to the the silver weapons that she had in the Arena, but somehow their handmade quality and well-loved sheen only makes them seem more elegant and precious. She takes a moment to examine it closely, one hand gliding along its familiar arc, before she looks up at me and smiles. "Wanna try?"

_Footnote:_

_Rutting season can indeed be quite dangerous. In addition to the spike in deer-related traffic accidents during the fall (mating season), injuries directly to humans caused by deer are not terribly uncommon. One common explanation for this is that the posture of a bipedal animal such as a human can be perceived as aggressive or challenging to a hormone-addled buck. _


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Note:**

**It is really hard to stay motivated and focused in the summertime. Really hard. Thank you to all of you who bother sticking with me. If not for that, my story would probably be on hiatus. Instead, I'm just posting continuously slow updates. **

**As a result, this chapter is technically incomplete. But it took me sooooo long (wrote it, scrapped it, rewrote it, edited so much that I might as well have re-rewritten it, etc.) that I'm just going to post this now, and the second half as a separate chapter. Once both are done, I'll probably combine them. So if it seems to stop rather suddenly, that is why. **

"Guess what I did on Wednesday," I say cheerfully as Gale sits down at my kitchen table. After some thought on the matter, I decided that the best course of action would just be to come clean. I expect that he will be annoyed to hear about my field trip with Katniss, but I'm betting that he'll be less annoyed than if he hears it from her tomorrow.

He squints at me appraisingly as I nudge a cup of warm tea across the table. "I thought something was different when you opened the door…. You brushed out that mess of a ponytail, didn't you?"

I scowl and wish for something to throw at him. The only thing immediately handy is my own cup of tea, and while the result would be satisfying it would also be messy. I don't feel like cleaning anything up right now, so I settle for kicking him under the table as he takes a sip from his mug. He must have one leg stretched out in front of him because my shoe connects with his shin much sooner than I anticipate, resulting in a much harder kick than intended. I almost feel bad. Almost.

"Ow!" he chokes as liquid splashes up over his nose and then down the front of his shirt.

"It would kill you to say something nice to me, wouldn't it?" I say as I feign offense. "You'd just… shrivel up and crumble into a little pile of dust."

Gale laughs at this suggestion. "Hey, I was being nice!" Truthfully, my ponytail is in better shape than usual at the moment. But he is incapable of praise unless it is backhanded. I am familiar with this routine at this point, but I won't turn down the chance to give him a hard time.

"I can just imagine the death certificate that would come with the little box of remains they'd send to your mother: 'Cause of death: Complimenting Madge Undersee.'"

"Mom would be devastated," he says. "So I obviously have to be careful about it." Gale wipes his sleeve across his face to mop up the tea, but he realizes too late that the reflex has only worsened the situation; dust from his uniform leaves dark streaks in the place of the spilled beverage. "Oh, hell."

My straight face slips a bit when I can't help but giggle at the sight and his reaction. "You're just a mess," I say as I get up to dampen a dishtowel under the faucet so he can clean himself up better.

"I know, imagine that!" he says with playful surprise. "It's me and not you for a change."

I spin and pitch the towel at his head, glad to finally have some ammunition that I can throw relatively safely. Gale seems to expect this, though, and he catches it with ease. "You are all piss and vinegar today," he chuckles as he rises from his chair and wipes the worst of the coal dust from his face. Then in one fluid motion, he tosses the towel into the sink behind me and sweeps me up in his arms the way the breeze swirls fallen leaves up in midair. He sets me on the edge of the counter and leans in close; from the way his silver gaze drifts over my face I can tell he likes the sparring. His nearness, his warmth and strength are dizzying even though they are so familiar to me now. His fingertips flex into the small of my back while a seductively wolfish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and I prepare to make a game of the coming kiss, play a little hard to get, make him work for it. "What _did_ you do on Wednesday?"

The words snap me back to reality like a rubber band pulled too tight. Clearly the question is meant as part of this play between us, an indication that he enjoys the feistiness that I've thrown back at him and is simply curious about what may have sparked it. I'm pretty sure that my answer will ruin this moment, but I know I'll have to tell him eventually so I brace myself and try to slide it in as smoothly as I can. Maybe if I say it like I expect him to approve, he'll go along with it. "I went for a walk in the woods."

He becomes utterly still and the smile disappears. The silver darkens to steel as his eyes lock on mine. "What?" he asks calmly after a long pause.

The calmness is almost worse than losing his temper would have been. I can't tell if he is angry, sad, frightened, or simply confused. I _can_ tell that he is not happy. "Not by myself," I explain, hoping to put him a little more at ease. "Katniss took me."

He tenses at this, closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. _How did that just make it_ worse_?_ When he steps back from me my skin still tingles from the contact, as of some part of me was ripped away. An echo of the smile flickers over his features, but this time it is nothing but melancholy. "I wanted to," he says quietly.

I blink at him once, twice. _He wanted to?_ He isn't so much irritated as disappointed. I can hardly believe it. "You… never asked," I say gently.

Gale shakes his head. "I thought maybe you'd want to go, but I wanted to do it my way... make sure…." Finally he looks me in the eye again and for a second he appears almost desperate. "_Please_ tell me she at least showed you how to climb a tree or how to _listen_ or –"

I frown, somewhat confused. "No," I say as I slip down from my perch on the countertop, "she-"

"_Dammit!"_ One hand runs through his dark hair in a gesture of intense frustration. "That's why _I_ wanted to take you. She didn't even think…." A pained sound escapes him as it becomes clear that this flare of anger is directed toward Katniss, not at me. He seems to notice that I am still a bit puzzled, and seems to make an effort not to be overly annoyed that I'm lagging behind. "Those are the kinds of things that help keep you safe out there," he says. "_I'd_ have made sure you knew that."

Though I am touched by his concern, I don't want him to be angry at his friend, and I don't like him thinking I am helpless. "She showed me how to use her bow," I offer, hoping to allay some of his worries. But the moment the words pass my lips, I know they are the wrong ones.

….

It was disappointing to hear that Katniss had taken Madge to see the forest first. I had wanted that privilege, but I could still bring her with me sometime. Then it was infuriating that she was so careless about it, not bothering to ensure that Madge could scale a tree well enough to escape an aggressive buck or wild dog if necessary, or listen for the heavy lumbering of a bear or the rhythm of human footfalls, or determine cardinal directions if lost. It would have been the very first thing I would have done. But to learn that she had given Madge her bow….

"She showed you how to use her bow," I repeat, just to make sure there is no chance that I misheard what she said.

Madge frowns again as she nods, as if not quite understanding why I am not happy about this news. It only makes me angrier because, of anyone, she ought to be the one to understand.

"And you took it when she offered it to you?"

"Yes," she says, like it should be obvious.

"What the hell, Madge!" I snarl. I don't know which is worse – that Katniss was stupid enough to do something like this, or that Madge was stupid enough to go along with it. "Bad enough that you went outside the fence, and then you let her give you a fucking _weapon_? After everything I told you…." I can't even bring myself to finish the sentence. It hadn't been an easy thing to tell her about Rory.

Her stare hardens, the way it does when she digs in her heels. When she's not going to let me win. Usually, I like it. But this time it's for real. This time it matters. "She showed me how to shoot an arrow at a tree, Gale." Her tone clearly indicates that she thinks I am being overdramatic.

"So? You struck me as smarter than that. I thought for a second that if _she_ did something stupid or reckless at least _you'd_ use your head."

She doesn't slap me, but I'd bet my paycheck that she thought about it. I wouldn't have blamed her, though; I have to admit it was a mean thing to say. Instead, she snatches up a handful of the front of my shirt and pulls me to the door, blue eyes all fire and ice, while a small, stubborn part of my brain tells me that under any other set of circumstances this would be fun. "I am not doing this inside and risking waking up my mother," she says. She flings the door open and drags me through the garden outside to the back of the yard where we had spent so many evenings together.

Madge turns to face me without loosening her grip. "I'm not an idiot, Gale, and I didn't just brush aside the things you told me about Rory. She showed me how to shoot an arrow. We didn't bring back any game. We didn't hunt." She releases my shirt the same way she would drop an apple if she discovered that it was crawling with ants. "What the hell is your problem? You say you wanted to take me and now you're pissed off because I went."

"No," I correct her acidly, "I'm pissed off because neither of you thought about the fact that it doesn't matter if you hunt or not, especially because _you_ don't hunt. If you got caught, no one would care what you were shooting at. What if a peacekeeper walked by and wondered what _you_ were doing crawling under the fence, decided to follow, saw what you were doing? What if someone else noticed and wanted to get you into trouble? Then what would you have done? All of a sudden you're not just going for a walk – you're practicing with a deadly weapon."

"I'd have told them that I was so impressed by our esteemed Victor that I begged her to show me how she used a bow and arrow to win the Games. I'd have been the perfect, stupid, brainwashed little citizen," she says with rather convincing confidence before her voice turns hateful again. "Believe it or not, the thought occurred to me," she says venomously as she taps one temple.

"What if they didn't believe you? Then what?" I counter. Doesn't she see that _I_ see every awful way this could end for her?

She stares at me for a moment, incredulous that I think that someone might not buy that lie. "As far as all of District Twelve is concerned, I'm the heartless bitch that thought this was the best Hunger Games ever."

"You didn't mean that, either."

"You know that. Prim knows that. Do you honestly think that anyone else would have bothered wondering whether I meant it or not? They'd have believed me."

She has a point, and it stings a little. It wasn't long ago that I'd have been one of the ones willing to take that comment for face value. In truth it was mostly because when you can't have something that you want, it's easier to talk yourself into hating it than to just keep wanting it - but I'd have been willing just the same. They'd have likely believed her if she gave them that story, and though it would likely have saved her life something about it makes me a little sad.

"So yes, Gale, I'm smarter than that," she spits. "You know, I figured that you'd be irritated that I went, but I never thought you'd call me stupid."

Madge turns on her heel to walk away from me, but I know I cannot let this end this way. I reach out and grab her arm as gently as I can, pull her back close to me even though everything about her says that she'd rather be anywhere else right now. "Just… listen to me for a second." Her expression changes just a shade, as if she is waiting patiently for me to finish what I have to say so she can go but isn't really listening. "I know you're not stupid," I begin, which seems to soften her a little. "I haven't asked you to come with me because I've spent weeks thinking about every possible way that something could go wrong and how to be careful about it. Then I find out that you went and did the one thing that I would never have let happen because it worried me the most." I pause for a second as she lets her eyes fall away from mine, soaking up the little details of this fierce, fearless gem of a girl that I could have lost. _I don't ever want to feel what it's like to lose her_. "It scared the hell outta me," I confess.

Madge lets her arms slide all the way around me as her eyes meet mine again. She is less angry now, but still utterly serious. "Don't worry about me," she says. Then her perfect lips twitch into a mischievous smile. "I've gotten away with worse."

This pulls dangerously at my curiosity, but I won't let myself get sidetracked. "Don't do it again."

The scowl returns immediately. "That's not how it works. You don't get to tell me what I'm _allowed_ to do, Gale, any more than _I_ get to tell _you_."

It was worth a shot. But in some ways, it would have been a disappointment if she had agreed. _She doesn't back down, not even from me_. "I had a feeling you'd say that. But I don't want something to happen to you."

Her bright blue eyes close, and when they reopen they seem kinder. "So take me with you then, like you said." She says this as if offering it as a compromise, as if to try to do it my way. She may not let me give her orders or make demands, but she is sensitive to my concerns. Willing to meet me somewhere in the middle.

"Alright," I agree. I've spent years learning to barter, and I know when I can't get more out of a deal. "Not tonight though. We're losing light fast. Maybe tomorrow, if I can get away?"

"Okay," she says.

I give her a small smile, glad to no longer be at odds. "You gonna argue with everything I tell you?"

She looks shocked that I should even have to ask. "Of course," she deadpans before breaking into a smile that makes me feel touch lightheaded.

I shake my head. "That's good, I guess. I wouldn't know what the hell else to do with you otherwise."

"Oh, you're pretty resourceful," Madge says as she leans into me a little more and cocks her head as if thinking hard about it. "I'm sure you'd think of something."

This makes me laugh, and I wonder again at the way she wrings it out of me even after I'd been so furious only moments ago. She always sees me so clearly, always _knows_. My hands come up and cradle her face as I press a kiss to her lips. "Yeah, I guess I'd figure something out."


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Note:**

**Requisite Apology: Sorry, guys. Still taking forever.**

**Heartfelt Thanks: Much appreciation for still bothering to read.**

Though he had been careful not to actually _promise_ that he would be able to come back for me Sunday afternoon, Gale appears at my back door with a pained smile on his face that quite explicitly says _Let's get this over with_. He is clearly still uneasy about letting me tag along, which I find slightly annoying, but I try hard to remember that he is simply being protective and make a mental note to be less difficult.

This is, after all, hardly the most dangerous thing I've ever done.

Gale isn't too keen on advertising where we are going, so he heads toward the square. "Mrs. E sent us to the butcher," he explains with a wink.

I agree to play along, and he keeps his distance from me as we walk side by side so we look like nothing more than two people out to run an errand. In fact, he doesn't even look especially pleased to be in my company at all, and I can't help but resent that he plays this part so convincingly. I guess it ought to be easy enough, I think, since for so long it had never been an act. No one pays us any attention as we cross the square and head down the street to the place where Rooba keeps her shop at the edge of town.

"There's a weak spot in the fence close to here that we can get through," Gale explains as we round the building and head through a patchy, junk-spotted field. "Usually, I go from the meadow since it's close to home and where the snare run starts. But this is a better way out if you've got bigger game, or a better way _in_ in broad daylight and you don't want half the Seam wondering what the hell you're doing."

Gale pauses to listen carefully for the hum of electricity, then beckons me closer and points to a spot where the chain link is warped out of place behind a tall growth of weeds. "After you."

I try not to appear too hesitant; any number of unpleasant things could be making a home in the brush around the bottom of the fence and I'm not exactly thrilled at the prospect of crawling through it. But I would never give Gale the satisfaction of seeing that. Once I claw my way through to the other side I have to force myself not to shudder, and I make a point to turn away from him as he follows me so I don't have to see the obnoxious smirk that I know must be on his face.

He leads me through the trees and I am surprised by how quietly he does it. He isn't completely silent – there are too many fallen leaves drifted across this long-unused path – but he doesn't make half the racket that I do despite the fact that he is twice my size. I make an effort to be quieter because for some reason it makes me think of how frustrated Katniss had been with Peeta's well-intentioned ineptitude while she was trying to hunt in the Arena. Gale might not be hunting, but I'm sure he'd rather not have to listen to my graceless tromping.

We stop in a clear space with only a few trees, and he finally turns to face me. "First thing you're going to do is figure out how to get up in a tree."

I look up at the specimens around us and pray that I don't make a complete idiot of myself. I had hoped that he might forget about this lesson that he promised to teach. It's not so much the idea of climbing a tree that bothers me necessarily; it's the fact that climbing by definition involves going _up_. I have never been a fan of heights, and do not plan on changing my mind about it.

"What good is it going to do me, really?" I ask, mostly just to delay the inevitable. I already know he is not going to budge. "Can't bears climb trees? And mountain lions?"

He gives me the same look that he gave the night I told him I thought one of his constellations looked like a raccoon. "Yeah," he recovers after a beat, "but a bear is big enough that it won't be able to climb as high as you can, and that's if it bothers to go after you." I think of Katniss again, climbing that tree to dizzying heights to escape the Careers in the Arena, and I'm pretty sure that Gale doesn't realize that he isn't helping his case. "And honestly, I'm not sure there are really any mountain lions left or if it's just something they tell us to keep everyone inside the fence. Besides, deer can't climb trees. Or dogs. That's what you really have to worry about."

"Deer?" I ask curiously.

"Yes. An angry buck comes your way, you get out of _his_ way. Now quit stalling. I'll show you."

He moves toward a tree, obviously chosen because it has a few branches that are low enough that I could reach them, and I try one more time to talk him out of it. "You don't have to show me, Gale. If properly motivated, I'm sure I'll have no trouble getting up there."

He looks over one shoulder as he reaches up for a limb. "What, are you scared?" he asks with a teasing grin before pulling himself upward, swinging one leg over the branch and sitting back against the trunk with enviable, athletic ease. It's a lovely thing to watch, really, like one of the leaves above us falling to earth in the breezeless air, except on a greater scale and in reverse. The glint in his gray eyes dares me to prove him wrong and I marvel for a moment at how well he knows me, knows the surest way to get me to do something. But he doesn't know that it's not really teasing this time.

"I just haven't ever done this before," I say levelly.

He laughs at me a little and drips down from his perch. "You lay down in the middle of the medow in the dark. You wanted to come here so bad," he says with a shake of his head, "you crawled through a bunch of weeds to get under the fence, and now you're worried about climbing a tree."

"It's not the tree," I admit sheepishly, knowing that he is going to laugh harder at the fact that I'm terrified of doing something that he does without a second thought. I raise one hand way over my head. "It's the, um, _tallness_."

The playful smile melts away and he looks hard at me. "So you really are – oh." The laughter I expect never comes, but then neither does the disappointment or condescension. Suddenly, he is all business. "Well, you're going to have to do this if you want me to show you anything else. If nothing else it'll make me feel better. So I'll stay right behind you, okay? Right here. I won't let you fall."

I stare at him for a second, surprised by this serious and genuine change in demeanor. I suppose that by now, with all the time we have spent in each other's company, it shouldn't be such a shock. But it is still a small thrill each time it happens. I swallow hard and take a deep breath. "Okay."

I reach up for the lowest branch and feel his fingertips in the center of my back through the fabric of my jacket, not to help push me upward but enough that I know that he is there. All at once, I feel like I could do anything and in the rush of confidence I make a determined effort to pull myself up and fling one leg over the branch like Gale had done moments ago.

My leg doesn't quite make it. But I don't quite embarrass myself, either. I drop back to the ground but stay on my feet.

"Well, you just got bit. Or gored. Try again," he says.

"Thank you, Gale," I grumble. "That was helpful."

"I'm _motivating_ you," he replies. "C'mon. Get up there."

I make a second attempt, and place my hands a little differently which makes it a bit easier to pull myself higher, and this time I manage to hook the back of my heel over the limb. Overjoyed, I struggle mightily to drag myself all the way into a sitting position before I can think too hard about how far I could fall from here. I think about it when I look down at him beneath me, though, and reflexively wrap my arms around the trunk to keep from feeling like I am swaying.

"A for effort," Gale says as he smiles up at me. Then he tilts one hand back and forth in a _so-so_ gesture. "C-minus for form."

I consider telling him exactly what he can do with his C-minus, but I don't want to make him decide not to break my fall. I still need to get back down, after all. I ask him how I am supposed to accomplish this.

"Same way you went up," he says. "Just backwards."

I know it's not that far down – I had been able to reach the branch on which I am sitting without any help – but for some reason everything seems smaller than it should down there, and my seat suddenly very unsteady. If my ascent was any indication, a graceful, painless landing is out of the question.

My apprehension must show because when he speaks again, his voice is reassuring. "I'll catch you if you need me to."

_It's either get down or sleep here_. I steel my nerves and remind myself that two strong arms and a pair of very kissable lips are waiting for me. It takes me a minute, but I gradually scoot myself into a hanging position and finally let go once I feel my shoes brush the ground.

"See?" he says as I turn to face him. "That wasn't so bad. You survived. Do it again."

To my chagrin, Gale makes me repeat the exercise three more times in all, although I have to admit it gets a little easier by the end. I can't quite convince myself to enjoy it, but the subtle vertigo eventually subsides and I suppose that I ought to be grateful that he insisted I be able to get myself out of harm's way in case I should ever need to do it. His practiced ease still eludes me, but I apparently meet his minimum standard and he must see that I'm rapidly losing patience because finally he kisses me quickly and says, "Let's go for a walk."

….

Madge is, of all things, utterly fascinated by the creek. She had commented on how much richer the fall colors seemed here. She had been awestruck at the sight of the angular, mossy rock walls of the ravine that cuts into the forest. She smiled with genuine interest when I pointed out the deer and raccoon prints in the mud in the low spots of the trail. But when we get to the stream, I have to stop so I won't leave her behind. I pick a spot at the edge of the stream to sit and watch while she bends down close to a small pool sheltered from the lazy flow of water by an old branch and a pile of debris.

"Look at all the little fish!" she gasps with unabashed delight at the sight of a miniature school of tiny minnows. At my suggestion, she nudges some of the dead leaves at the edge of the water out of the way and discovers a salamander. Madge looks for a moment like she is considering whether to try to pick it up, but refrains in favor of admiring its bright yellow spots from afar. A scatter of small mussel shells catches her attention, and then a water-strider skimming across the surface and out of sight.

After a while she tip-toes her way to a large rock in the middle of the creek and crouches down to stare wide-eyed and unblinking into the swirls and ripples. "It's so clear," she breathes. It occurs to me that the only stream that she has ever seen in person is the one by the mine during school field trips, and nobody has probably been able to see the bottom of _that_ for a century or two (nor wanted to, for that matter).

She stays there for what seems like hours, statue-still and completely entranced, studying every little detail of the creek bed before her. And I sit, statue-still and completely entranced, studying every little detail of the girl. It is as if the dappled sunlight has solidified and beaded on the stone there like morning dew upon a leaf. One hand finally reaches out, overcome with curiosity, and fingertips skim the surface of the water. She almost shivers at the sensation and her perfect lips twitch into a smile.

"Cold," she mumbles, before letting her hand sink deeper to bring up a handful of dark, current-polished stones. She holds them close and examines them minutely like she is admiring a cache of gems pulled from a treasure chest. "They're all so perfect.…" The way her sky blue eyes soak up all the things that are so familiar to me reminds me why I love this place so much, gives me a chance to look at it like it is new again. She lets the pebbles roll off her fingertips and back into the stream one by one with slow precision, bobbing her head in time with the splashes, lips pursed in concentration. I realize that she is humming a melody to herself, each dropped stone corresponding to a note.

"So you have a song for this, too, then?" I ask, even though I know the answer.

Her eyes snap up to mine, and she smiles brightly as if pleased that I have figured out what she was doing. "Yeah. I guess I do." She drops the last pebble back into the water thoughtfully. "You know, I never really had music for things like this until the day you told me that you thought that piano piece sounded like autumn. Well, I did, I guess, but I never really thought much about it." Her fingers drift through the water again absently. "I'd play something and I'd get a mental picture, or a feeling, or think of a story but…" she pauses and frowns as if struggling to choose her next words, "I never paid attention to it? I dunno…."

I chuckle at this. "Well, I'm not sure I deserve that kind of credit, but I'll take it if you're giving it."

She laughs with me. "You deserve some of it. A different pair of eyes – or ears, for that matter." She shrugs lightly as if it is the most natural thing in the world. "Everybody has one, everybody needs one. You know, perspective and all that."

It _is_ the most natural thing in the world, which still amazes me – this ease with her, this balance, this _sureness_. Somehow all of it has me off-kilter again, because that is what she always does to me, and I have come to find out that the reason I have always found the feeling so unnerving is that I _like_ it. "Do you have a song for me?" I ask playfully before I think better of it.

She smiles shyly as she stands up, breaking eye contact as if suddenly self-conscious. "Yes," she says as she takes an agile step onto another rock. "You have a song."

"You'll have to play it for me."

Madge glances back up at me for a moment. "Okay, but you've already heard it."

"I have?" I say, somewhat surprised to hear this.

"Mmm hmm," she says, crouching down again and propping an elbow on her knee to rest her chin in her hand. Her eyes go back to the creek. "The one you said sounded like rain."

The off-kilter, lightly-dizzy feeling pulls into shockingly razor-sharp focus. _Of all the things she has played while I have listened…. _I don't have the skill that she does with music so the melody is not something I can call to mind with any kind of precision, but the image it evoked is something that I remember clearly. _Like rain_….

"Well, not all of it," she admits to the water, charmingly oblivious to my sudden start. "Just the first movement. The tempo of the rest is too fast, I think –"

I don't give her the chance to finish. I crash into the water with her and pull her to her feet, crushing a kiss to her lips as I pull her tight against me. A small squeak of surprise escapes her before she regains her faculties and returns it, snaking her arms around me inside my open jacket. I withdraw just enough to catch my breath and whisper, hurried and awed, against her jawline, "How do you know…."

"Know what?" she breathes, nuzzling back against me to invite another kiss.

"_Me_," I answer, tasting the pretty contours of her throat and collarbone more daringly than I have before. "Rain…." I don't bother explaining more than that before I catch her lips again; words are failing me fast, and she is distracted enough that I'm not sure my response registered at all.

We stagger out of the creek and then clumsily atop the shallow bank where I back her against the tree I had been sitting under. I feel her fingers curl into my shoulders as she arches into me, a now-familiar motion that has still not lost its luster. No closeness seems close enough, and I let my hands slip lower past her hips and in one quick motion bring her legs up to circle my waist. The sound she makes when I do this tells me that she likes it. I sink to my knees with Madge still tangled around me and we tune to each other, boots drenched and jackets askew, all speeding pulses and ragged breaths and hungry lips, and we strike a perfect chord.

It all hits me hard, again, because everything about her does. It's not that it's new, or especially sudden; it's that there is no dancing around it anymore, no questions, no wondering. Only certainty. I have known that she is _right_ for me, that we fit. This is different. _I'm in love with her_.

_Footnotes: _

_The salamander that Madge finds is a common spotted salamander. They are black or very dark brown with bright yellow spots and are indeed quite pretty. They are found all over the place, especially in the eastern United States._

_The song that Madge is singing to herself in the stream is the beginning of the first movement of Mozart's _Piano Sonata No. 11_. The whole piece is somewhat reminiscent of a woodland stream in my opinion, especially as it progresses through its six variations. _

_So you don't have to go back and look up what the "rain" song was, it is Beethoven's _Moonlight Piano Sonata No. 14_. To me, the first movement seems to suit his character – it's a very strong, measured melody that is a touch melancholy without being completely depressing._


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Note**

**So it's now been over a year. This &%^$*ing thing was supposed to have been done by now. :) But I was also not supposed to take three weeks to update, either. However, it's been fun! Thank you to all my wonderful readers for sticking with me for so long. Your support keeps me writing!**

**Also, a warning for this chapter for somewhat graphic/disturbing imagery. Nothing much different from the original Hunger Games Trilogy, but still… just so you know. **

I'm about four steps toward home after school when the sound of my name stops me in my tracks.

"Miss Madge!"

I turn around just in time to brace myself as Posy Hawthorne catapults herself into me. I can't catch her as easily as Gale does, so we hardly have the graceful reunion she often shares with her brother. Her little body impacts into the side of my leg so hard I don't know how she doesn't knock the wind out of herself, and I stagger sideways and nearly lose my balance as I try to keep the backpack sliding off my shoulder from landing on her.

"Posy!" I return cheerfully, leaning down to return the hug she has thrown around my knees. The backpack flops over on my arm and I fling it away completely to avoid squashing her with it. Gale's little sister grins up at me, oblivious to the fact that my school bag has now spilled open and is spewing papers into the breeze.

"Posy!" Rory Hawthorne says his sister's name with none of the cheer that I did as he darts our way. "You can't just tackle her like that!" He begins chasing down some of my escaping homework, and offers me an apologetic, half-hearted smile. "Sorry. Vick, come help, please…."

"I haven't seen you in forever!" Posy chirps excitedly, choosing to ignore her brothers completely since what they have to say does not interest her in the slightest. "You haven't visited since Katniss won!"

"I know," I say, and something about it stings a little. "But I get to see you now, right?" I haven't seen any of Gale's family since the end of the Hunger Games. He has never invited me. To be fair, I've never invited him to be around my family either, so I suppose I don't have much right to be put off.

"I haven't seen you at school before," she says. Gale had mentioned that she had started school, but I hadn't looked for her (or the boys, for that matter); I didn't want to push myself into his family more than I already have before he decided he was comfortable with it.

"Well, there are a lot of grades between us," I explain. "I'm glad you found me."

"This is most of it," Rory interrupts, handing over a messy stack of papers. "I think a couple still got away," he says as he glares at his sister.

"It's okay," I tell him. "It's for Mrs. Cooper anyway. I don't think she actually reads any of it. She'll never miss a few pages. Just a tip for when you get her in a couple years," I add with a wink. This pulls a smile out of him.

Posy yanks on my wrist enthusiastically, springing up and down on her toes like an excited puppy. "You have to walk home with us!"

I waver for an instant as to whether this would be a good idea or not, but Rory saves me when he tries to placate the little girl. "Pose, she might have stuff to do. You can't just demand like that."

Wide gray eyes come back up to me. "Pleeease," she begs.

"Well, I guess that was nicer," he grumbles, and I stifle a laugh because he reminds me so much of Gale. He looks at me apologetically again.

It's easy to see how she has her eldest brother wrapped around her little finger. _What's the harm? _I don't have much reason to be home right after school since my mother's health has improved, and she and Rose are accustomed to my spending some of my afternoons with Katniss. "Okay, since you said please," I tell her. "If I take them home, you won't have to," I offer to Rory, making an effort at subtlety so as not to embarrass him in front of his brother and sister.

Rory smiles and nods as he catches my drift, but Vick pays closer attention than he lets on and snatches up this little hint like someone has handed him a piece of candy. "Yeah! If _she_ takes us you can go with _Prim_!"

Rory slouches a bit as the embarrassment I was trying to spare him creeps across his face. I get the distinct impression that he's mentally reciting a quick count to ten before he chooses to ignore Vick altogether and tells me, "Yeah. You better do it. I might strangle one of 'em."

Posy drags me with her down the sidewalk to the road back to the Seam while Vick trails closely behind. I don't have to worry about making small talk because Posy takes care of that on her own, so my primary responsibility becomes answering her myriad questions in a timely fashion and moderating the conversation to give Vick a chance to get a word in here and there. By the time they get me to their home, I have an in-depth report on all the best parts of kindergarten and why fourth grade is so much better.

Vick opens the door and makes a feeble attempt to warn his mother that he and his sister have brought home a guest before Posy interrupts him and establishes herself as the center of attention all over again. "Mommy! Look who I found!" she says proudly, as if I am some long-lost toy for which they had all been searching.

Hazelle looks up from a washtub of steaming, soapy water and smiles when her eyes land on me. "Well hello. Haven't seen you in a while," she says warmly as she dries her hands on a worn towel. "Rory sucker you into bringing them home so he could tag along with somebody else?"

"With Prim, Mom. _Obviously_," says Vick with a comical eye-roll before disappearing through a dark doorway that I presume leads to a bedroom.

I laugh a little at the notion that this is not the first time that Posy and Vick have been escorted home by someone other than their brother. "Actually, no. I offered after Posy insisted."

"Uh-huh," she says as she eyes her daughter with good-natured disapproval. "She does that. I try to break her of it, but I turn around and Gale just tells her 'yes' for everything." For her part, Posy simply frowns slightly at her mother as if to say _why would he say anything else?_

"Thanks for walking with them," she continues, "It makes me feel better knowing there's somebody keeping an eye on them."

"No problem. I don't mind," I say as I watch Posy dig a school book out of her bag. "Your kids are actually pretty fun."

Vick reappears, changed out of his school uniform faster that I'd have thought possible, and announces that he is going outside to meet some friends down the street.

"Am I going to find your school clothes in a heap on the floor in there?" Hazelle asks casually.

He backtracks quickly and reemerges with confidence.

"And I suppose your homework is done already, in the thirty seconds you've been home?"

Vick frowns. "That's not fair. I bet Rory's not doing his homework right now."

She sighs. "Okay, fair enough," she concedes. "You get one hour then, _one_. And don't wander too far. Or by yourself," she adds as he darts out the door. When she looks back at me, she appears skeptical that I could have used the word _fun_ in reference to her children.

I am about to excuse myself to leave as Posy clambers into a chair at the table where Hazelle has stacked several columns of neatly folded laundry and decides that there isn't enough space for her book. She pushes a pile of clothes out of her way – thereby sending the pile next to it toppling off the opposite edge of the table. I see it coming and lurch forward to catch it; I keep most of the clothes from hitting the floor but a few shirts manage to get away from me. Nearly all of them come unfolded.

Hazelle frowns at her daughter. "Posy! How many times have I told you to watch what you're doing?" She takes the armful of clothes from me with a grateful "thank you, dear," while Posy tries to explain that she needed more room to open her book.

"You can't just shove things around willy-nilly like that, honey. There's a perfectly good couch right over there that I'm not using right now. You can look at your book there," she says in a tone that is kind but still makes clear that it isn't a suggestion.

"But I need help with it!"

"I can help you with it as soon as I'm done, but I have to finish this first, Pose." Hazelle begins refolding the rumpled garments with military precision. "This is all I do all day. Negotiate. I could have been a lawyer."

Posy's big pleading eyes come back to me as if she is hoping that I will somehow intervene and allow her to get her way.

"I can stay a while and help her," I offer, "so you can finish without having to do everything twice."

Hazelle glances from the trousers in her hands to my face as a small smile twists her lips. "She just gave you the puppy-eyes, didn't she?" She chuckles when I nod sheepishly. "Alright, well, if you don't mind doing it, I'd appreciate the help. Why don't you stay for supper then, let me feed you to return the favor?"

I wonder for a split second what Gale's reaction would be if he came home and found me sitting in his living room with his sister, and immediately decide that I don't care. For one thing, it couldn't be any worse than the first time it happened. But even more than that, I like the feeling of family and warmth here. My own home is always so quiet and, more often than not, mostly empty.

….

"It's all just a bunch of talk," hisses the man next to me. His name is Glen, and he is one of the veteran miners on our team. "People have been sayin' stuff like that off and on for years."

"Yeah, but it's different this time," counters Thom, our lead. "Other things are happening."

Someone else comments, but I miss what he says when my shovelful of coal crashes into the bottom of an empty bin. _Rory_. I would much rather have a pickaxe in my hands; hacking away at a wall is far more cathartic.

"-Hawthorne said." I perk up at the sound of my name. "The Capitol didn't win the Games this year."

This statement makes me a little uneasy. It's true that I've said far worse about the Capitol, but I've always taken care to ensure that I do it where there aren't so many people around to hear it. "Hey, now," I growl as I spear my shovel back into the pile of coal. _Vick_. "Don't be draggin' my name through the mud…." I may have instigated a lot of this talk, but I don't want anyone to be able to directly pin it on me.

"What, change your mind?"

"No, far from it," I say as I heft another shovel into the bin. _Posy_. "Just if anybody important overhears…"

I don't get the chance to explain further. We all stop abruptly at a loud, ragged fracturing sound, which is followed closely by a tremor rippling through the ground and walls around us. Everyone remains still for a second, two, three after it subsides. All except for me, that is; for once I am glad to have the thick darkness surrounding us as I strafe to the side of the beam from a headlamp so that no one can see how badly I am shaking. The cracking noise had been alarmingly close, near the mouth of the tunnel where we are working, and the ensuing reverberations frighteningly real.

"What the hell was that?" Bristel asks. I can barely hear him over my own pulse pounding in my ears.

"Sounded like a fissure opening up in the stone back there," says Glen carefully.

"Didn't sound – or feel – like the stuff we do on purpose down here," Bristel returns, his voice taking on a subtle note of panic. He is right. This was markedly different from the sound of work being done, even from the rumble of dynamite that they use from time to time.

"Just give it a second," says Thom patiently, though his tone is a little too tight to be soothing. "Don't go anywhere, it might just settle."

I fight the urge to run as I notice that the air has become eerily silent, even the echoes of other teams working nearby vanishing as everyone waits with bated breath to be certain that something bad isn't about to happen. Everything in me says that I need to escape, claw my way free of this grave that I am digging for myself. I fight hard against it, remembering that I can't run, that I have a family relying on me not to run. Then the cracking sounds come again but this time they distort, and it takes me a moment to realize that it is the thunderous roar of collapsing rock walls as thick dust billows around and blinds us all.

_Madge_.

….

I spend the afternoon paging through the kindergarten school reader with Posy. She had been slightly insulted when I started on the first page because her reading ability had already surpassed the basic lessons there, and insisted (as usual) that we skip ahead to the better parts. It becomes clear that this is not a homework assignment - she is so genuinely thrilled to have a new book in her hands that she wants to try to read as much of it as she can whether her teacher required it or not. It's heartbreaking, because having books around the house is something that I have taken for granted for years. When you're worried about how to put food on the table every day, even something as simple as owning a book or two is a luxury. Posy surprises me that she reads so well for her age; Hazelle explains that once she was old enough to realize that her brothers could read while she could not, she pestered them relentlessly until Gale started teaching her the alphabet just to keep her quiet.

Rory comes home and smiles appreciatively when he sees me, and I guess that he's glad to have someone here that isn't actually going to tease him about Primrose Everdeen. Hazelle does, however, but she does it gently when she inquires if he remembered to ask whether Prim's mother had any laundry that needed done. Rory reddens a little at the question and admits that he forgot altogether, but brightens again when she tells him that he'll just have to stop by tomorrow to ask.

Vick arrives not long after his brother, and I am surprised to see that he dutifully pulls out his schoolwork with little prodding from his mother. He might try to weasel as much as he can out of her, but he holds up his end of the bargain, which I suppose is an indication that she is an excellent lawyer and parent. After a while, he looks at me sidelong and seems to debate whether he ought to initiate conversation, then finally swallows his pride and asks for help with a math problem. This makes his sister slightly jealous, but she contains herself after he says "You have to share, Posy," which makes me laugh and gives me a chance to work through a few exercises with him.

Hazelle finishes her laundry and begins cooking dinner, and once she says that our meal is almost ready everyone suddenly seems to notice that it's getting a bit late. The sun isn't quite set yet and the day has hardly ended, but there is still one family member missing from the crowd.

"Gale isn't usually this late on a weeknight," she remarks carefully. It is clear that she is concerned, but does not want to cause her other children any undue worry.

I look down and away from her, letting some of my hair fall in my face so no one can see the blush that floods my face; he is consistently late on _Saturdays_, and I am the reason why. But today is not a Saturday. I try not to pay any attention to the terrifying scenarios that begin to play out in my mind's eye; surely he only had to work a little late today, or had to run an errand before coming home. It's difficult to force down dinner, though, while I think of what had happened in District Eight only a few weeks ago or the murky details of his (and Katniss') father's death. Even while Posy remains chipper and largely oblivious, I can't not notice that Rory's somber eyes fix on the front door waiting for the brother that has tried so hard to keep him sheltered. He is only a few years away from finding himself in the same place, and it seems that he is beginning to understand exactly what that really means.

I enlist Posy's and Vick's help in cleaning up the dishes for their mother just to have something to do. Part of me almost feels guilty for doing it because Hazelle clearly needs similar exercise, but she busies herself with sweeping the floor and straightening what little there is to straighten in their bare living room. Once we finish, I can't decide if it's worse for me to remain here and wait with them or to go home and leave them to themselves. Once Posy finally picks up on the fact that something is amiss, I offer to sit with her and read a while longer to keep her occupied, which everyone seems to appreciate.

It is dark outside and Hazelle has begun to pace nervously back and forth across the kitchen when the front door finally cracks open. All of us snap around at the sound, and are relieved to see Gale – bedraggled, exhausted, but alive – lean inside. I can't help but smile brightly as Posy squeaks his name happily from where she is curled up at my side. She moves to dart across the room and throw herself at him, but I slip an arm around her little frame when his eyes meet mine and he holds up a hand to tell her to stop. Everyone becomes unnaturally still.

"Just… wait, Pose," he mumbles softly. "Lemme clean up first."

He steps fully inside and past the door and now we can see that his uniform – typically a dull gray – is stained with broad black splotches. I have often seen his clothes smeared with soot (even happily shared in the mess), but this time there is something odd about it. This time, when he turns just so to face his mother and the fabric catches the lamplight, I can see that it isn't dust.

….

It's all I can do not to stagger across the room and throw my arms around Madge Undersee because the fact that she is unexpectedly present on this of all days seems like a perfect, provident twist of fate. She is what I wanted – _needed_ – and here she is, sky-colored eyes full of kindness and strength. But I can't, not like this, not yet. She deserves better than to be stuck with picking up the pieces again.

My mother always has a kettle of hot water ready for me when I come home so I can clean up, but today when I take it from her I don't have to say anything for her to start a second pot boiling. She stares at me, frightened, so I reassure her before I lock myself in the bathroom. "Don't worry, Mom. It's not mine."

I strip off my ruined uniform and decide that I won't even let my mother try to wash it; even if she did manage to get it clean again, I don't know that I could stand to wear it. I can ask for a new set tomorrow to replace them. My boots aren't something that the mine provides for us, and I don't have the spare money to replace them, so I'll have to live with that. The shock of cold tap water as I wash my face in the sink reminds me that I'm alive, though I'm not sure whether that is good news. A real bath would be my first choice but the thought of soaking in filthy water deters me, so I set the kettle in the bottom of the bathtub – old and yellowed but clean, which is the most I can ask for - and sit on the edge of it so I can scrub the layers of dirt and blood from my skin.

Brownish-red rivulets trickle toward the drain as the day's horrors replay themselves in my mind: the sheer terror of the collapsing tunnel, the howls of pain from a trapped worker, the nauseating guilt that came with the indecision about whether to help or to run.

Madge was really the one to make the choice for me, in the end, the girl that admires the fight in me, who believes me to be brave and honorable. It felt like it took an eternity for me to act like the man she thinks I am, but Thom told me afterward that my reaction was nearly instantaneous; I charged toward the stone avalanche before anyone else moved, because I knew that no matter how frightened I was I couldn't abandon the injured miners there. Maybe that means she is right.

The crumbled rocks didn't completely block the tunnel so we could still scramble over them to help, but once I got there I knew there was precious little I could do. I found the screaming man in hysterics, half his body buried by what had once been a wall. Another of his teammates lay nearby, unconscious but clearly breathing, one leg caught under the debris and one arm bent obscenely underneath him as if broken when he fell. I tried to calm the conscious miner as I shouted for help to my team, and when they appeared seconds behind me we began doing our best to heave stones out of the way to free them. Thom managed to rouse the man with the broken arm, who informed him that there were likely at least two others buried in the rubble.

The washcloth I am using has stopped doing much good; it is so soiled now that it is only moving the dirt around instead of wiping it off, so I toss it aside and reach for another. The dark puddle in the bottom of the tub is sickeningly reminiscent of the one I had knelt in on the mine floor while the trapped man clawed at my uniform and begged us to save him. I run the faucet for a moment to wash it down the drain. A light tap at the door precedes my mother's voice telling me that she has more hot water and a clean set of clothes, so I crack the door open just enough to receive them and shut it again so she can't see the mess inside.

It takes a while to get myself completely clean – blood is stubborn once it has dried, and I expect it will be a long time before I feel like it is all gone, even if it's no longer visible on my skin. There will be no forgetting the sight of a leg so badly broken that that bone had split the flesh wide open, or the metallic smell of the blood gushing so freely that it soaked through my uniform, or the shrill shriek of pain when I looped my belt around his thigh as a makeshift tourniquet. _We are in our own kind of Arena, here in Twelve_. Other workers had carried the man away once we freed him, delirious but still alive, but I doubt that he survived much longer. Even with the help we – I – gave him, most of his life had bled onto the ground and me. And then there were the others we found, after we worked furiously to clear away more stone….

Once I decide that further scrubbing will only remove layers of skin, I dress and prepare myself to walk back out into the living room. When I open the door, everyone is quiet as if waiting for me to set the tone. Without thinking I let my eyes settle on Madge, the warm, fierce drop of sunlight that holds my gaze fearlessly. I had thought of her so desperately today in the darkness, was grateful to the point of pain to see her here when I finally made it home, and she is still there waiting, patient and willing to let me do all of this at my own pace. Posy is snuggled next to her on the couch with a book, perfectly at home. My sister stares suspiciously at me, wondering what is happening and waiting for some cue to act.

I hold out my arms. "C'mere, chickadee," I say. Smiling, Posy hops from her seat and throws herself into my arms. As soon as she catches her breath from the tight squeeze she gives me, she starts in a mile a minute about Madge walking her home from school and helping her read some new words in her storybook. I have a hard time keeping up, but at least she eases the tension in the room.

Eventually Posy has to pause for air and I take the opportunity to set her down and turn my attention back to the girl on the couch. "It's late," I say. "Let's get you home." She nods in agreement and gets up to give my sister a goodbye hug while I tell my mother to throw away my old uniform and warn her that I will likely be late. When she doesn't protest or ask for details, I guess that she thinks I'll be dropping by the Victor's Village; I'm actually just hoping to stretch out the walk to the Mayor's house as long as I can.

While I watch Madge thank Mom for dinner and wave at my brothers, I can't help but wonder again at how this is all so starkly different from how it was only a few months ago. Then I would have been mortified to find her sitting in my home when I walked in, and now it is the only thing I could have wanted. When once I ushered her out the door to get rid of her, I now do it simply because I want us to be _alone_.

Once we round the corner at the end of the street, Madge looks at me carefully and asks, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," I answer. "I'm okay. Nothing hurt."

She doesn't press, and I appreciate her intuition. She is mercifully quiet for the rest of the way, and it is enough to be near her, to know that she _knows_, to see that she understands that I will speak of today's events in my own time (if ever). Her presence is soothing in a vibrant, unshakeable kind of way. A beacon of daylight in the dark. The walk doesn't take nearly long enough. Following her down the garden path to her back porch is like watching the sun set before you're ready for the day to end.

Madge pauses under the amber light by the door, glittering blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, perfect lips pursed in that expression she gets when she decides that she is very determined about something. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she says, "but are you _alright_?"

I offer her what little of a smile that I can, though it's probably a pretty sad one, and reach out to pull her close to me. "I have to be," I say, because it's the truth. She returns the smile, equally sad, and the look of her makes the confession spill out so easily that I wonder if I actually speak it aloud. "It helped that you were there when I walked in."

Her arms tighten around me as she glances over her shoulder into the dark house inside the doorway. "Do you want to stay with me tonight?" she asks gently.

For a second it seems almost cruel that she should make such an offer. I am angry, saddened, bitter – but I'm not _suicidal_. Still, I'm not ready to let go of her yet and surely she wouldn't have asked if she didn't think we could get away with it. "Yes" passes my lips before I think better of it.


	38. Chapter 38

**Author's Note:**

**I hope you all haven't forgotten about me – I haven't forgotten about you! Apologies for dropping off the face of the earth; I was job hunting (sadly harder work and longer hours than actually having a job) and working on a writing assignment (read: dry training manual) for another employer with a strict deadline. I made an announcement on Tumblr, but for all my people – sorry for the delay, and there's no great way to post that kind of announcement on this site. But now that I type this, I guess I could have put it on my profile page…. **

I wake up before sunrise as is my habit, but for a half a heartbeat everything seems a bit strange; the bed and blankets are far too soft, I still have half my clothes on, and I am not alone. In the next breath I remember that I'm not at home, and it amazes me that I slept so soundly that I would awaken disoriented like this. Truthfully, I'm surprised I slept at all.

I know that I ought to get up now, if nothing else so I can escape before anyone notices that I am here, but one arm is still draped over Madge's side – exactly where it had been when I drifted off – and I'm not ready to move it. She is curled up against me, her breath warm against my chest and one hand flat over the place where my heart would be. Her eyes are still closed, fast asleep. My fingers tangle in the ends of her hair while I marvel at the brave kind of kindness in her.

Long eyelashes flutter blearily when I shift my weight, and a cautiously gentle smile teases her lips as she awakens. The hand pressed against my chest slips up over my shoulder, then to the side of my face so her fingers can spear into my hair. "How are you feeling?" she asks, voice just barely above a whisper.

"Better," I tell her. I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at her, tightening my arm around her waist to keep her close. I can see through the narrow part in the curtains that the sky is only just edging out of darkness, and in the faint light she looks almost unreal, a few luminous features against inky shadows, as if I might simply have imagined that she was ever here at all. To reassure myself I let the fingers of my free hand trace the line of the side of her face, the slope of her neck to her collarbone; she is real, no doubt, warm, soft, responsive. "Better than I should, actually." My fingers continue up to the curve of her shoulder, stumbling almost imperceptibly over the strap of her nightdress. Madge notices though, and nuzzles closer as if encouraging me to move it out of the way. The temptation gets the better of me after a second of indecision and I brush it aside over her arm.

The effect is no less than dizzying. This is hardly the first time that I have laid eyes upon that smooth, cream-perfect expanse of skin - I've seen her in sundresses with thinner straps that show off more than what she is wearing now. But that was different; this, though less revealing, is far more intimate. This is only for me, and I am the one who has done it. I trace feather-light patterns back toward her ear, cup the back of her head gently, and lean down to cover her lips with mine. She melts into me, curling her arms all the way around my shoulders.

_Hell's teeth, how _did_ I sleep through this?_

We shift together as I pin her carefully beneath me and I let the kisses trail from her mouth down over her bare shoulder. A sharp intake of breath gives me pause as my lips find the soft place at the shallow V of the nightdress' neckline, but the way her spine arches and fingers flex into my back tells me that this is a welcome advance. I drift to her other shoulder and slip that strap lower also, content to savor this slowly, inch by inch. I catch her lips again as I let one hand follow the curve of her waist and hip to the hem of the dress at her knee; for a moment I consider pushing it upward to expose more silkily delicious skin, but I want more of this closeness so I curl my fingers around her calf instead and hook her leg over my hip. The motion still yields the same result, though, as the fabric rides a few inches higher on her thigh. She breathes my name against my ear as I kiss her neck and that fast I want her so badly it _hurts_.

I push myself up to look at her again, drink her in, reassure myself that she looks at me the way I look at her. She does, it is clear, and she wants me, wants _this_, every bit as much as I do. She remains still though, hesitant – not unwilling, but _inexperienced_. I am right to take my time, let her find her way, so I remain still also until she lifts a tentative hand to my chest and lets her fingertips trace a line of muscle through my threadbare undershirt.

Maybe it is her uncertainty, or the realization that I don't have the time that I want right now, or knowing that the longer I stay the greater the chances are of getting caught, but suddenly the context of all of this seems wrong. As much as I want what is happening, I don't want there to be any question about my motivations, about what she is to me. If I continue, she will be left wondering if I was simply searching for solace from her. I will be left wondering if I can ever make her know that everything that happened yesterday had nothing to do with it.

It is a weird, jarring feeling that getting so caught up in this moment is the thing that snaps me back to reality. I sit back on my heels, and she remains still, waiting for my next move. Finally, she sits up with me, the nightdress – now held in place only by the graceful swell of her bustline - slipping precariously lower and her hair a golden, lopsided tangle. _Good God she makes a gorgeous mess_. I can't help but think she isn't nearly enough of one yet, either…. How much more enticing would it be if that dress fell even more askew? Or better yet, fell in pieces onto the floor? What would it feel like to twist those knots of hair around my hand and pull, for my teeth to leave a mark on the inside of her thigh? And she could make a mess of me, too; she has become more daring herself after all the time we have spent together. She is strong… I imagine her fingers leaving bruises in my shoulders, her –

"Gale…." Madge tilts her head curiously and I can see that her blue eyes are troubled as they catch the low light. The concern in her voice pulls me back from the brink again.

I look away and close my eyes for a moment. "No, not like this…." I mumble quietly, afraid that if I meet her gaze my resolve will wane again.

I feel her move slightly in front of me, the leg still flung over my hip sliding away. The motion pulls me back to her but she has turned her face away from me now, her arms crossed self-consciously over her chest to straighten her nightdress. She is embarrassed, and worse, clearly hurt, and it is crushingly painful. I reach across to her and she freezes when my fingers land on her skin – skin that had moments ago been warm and welcoming. Determined not to let her slip away from me I cup her face gently in my hands and press another gentle kiss to her lips. She thaws a bit, but she is still cautious.

"I don't want to have to rush. Or worry about whether we're alone," I say. "I don't want to have to turn around and leave right away."

She smiles at me finally, and inches a little closer. Her arms snake around my shoulders as she fits herself to me again. "And I already don't want you to go," she says as she returns the kiss, "so I guess you should."

A frustrated little laugh escapes me as I push her back down on the bed and kiss her quickly one last time. "God, you're making this hard…."

Madge chuckles at this and it is a musical, intoxicating sound. I stand up and start pulling on my clothes, and it is the most difficult thing I have ever done. I'd give anything to be able to stay with her, and it isn't because of where I'm going when I leave.

….

I watch him dress for a minute, admiring the ropes of muscle in his arms as he buttons his shirt and rolls up the sleeves. The silhouette of broad shoulders and narrow hips as he passes in front of the window. Agile fingers tying the laces of his boots. All of the things I wish I could be feeling instead of seeing right now. But the line we have crossed this morning came with too many caveats and I hope that this awkward impasse is not irreparable. What had begun as a gesture of comfort with no expectations from either of us had become something deeply emotional and then intensely physical. And I was shocked at how good it felt, how easily it swept me away, how much my _imagination_ had paled in comparison…. And then he pulled away from me, and I didn't know what to think. Even now, even after his reassurance, it feels as if everything has been cut oddly short and we are caught in some weird sort of limbo.

I tell him to wait as I throw a robe on over my nightdress, so I can tiptoe down the hall and make sure that no one is up and about. Everything is quiet, all the doors are closed, all the lights are still turned off. I lean back into my bedroom doorway and wave for him to follow me; the tall, still shadow perched on the edge of my bed shimmers to life and moves with me toward the stairs.

I lead Gale into the kitchen quickly – here at least I could make a reasonable excuse for his presence should someone wander in for some reason or another. I turn on the light and his gray eyes narrow at the sudden brightness of it, but I can see that they still remain strained even after a few seconds as if he is uncomfortable at the realness of the world that comes with it. Only a few minutes ago, in the dark, it was only he and I and nothing else.

He watches me carefully as I pull a biscuit from the breadbox and an apple from the basket on the table. "Here," I say, "breakfast."

He studies the apple for a moment, rolling it over in one hand, before a sly smirk tugs at his lips. Silver eyes come back to mine through the dark hair that has fallen in the way, and my knees nearly give way. "You give up on peaches altogether?" he asks.

I smile but narrow my eyes at him, the weakness vanishing at this invitation to spar. "They're out of season, smartass," I retort.

Gale brightens at this and gives me that enticing, low little laugh. His lips catch mine as he leans down, his free hand tracing a teasing pattern from my ear to my collarbone. "Hmm," he mumbles as his mouth follows the trail begun by his fingertips, "that's too bad…." I immediately decide that, no matter what I have to do or how much it costs, I will find a peach in this God-forsaken district by Saturday if it's the last thing I do.

Well, second to last. Otherwise it would defeat the purpose.

He rights himself deliberately, as if it takes a great effort, and it's a thrill to think I have this kind of effect on him. Gale touches a light kiss to my lips, brief and gentle as if meant to be the last before he leaves, and at once his eyes become melancholy again.

"I wish you could stay," I sigh.

"So do I," he admits as his fingers, feather-light and steady, brush a lock of hair behind my ear before breaking away from me completely. The motion transports me unexpectedly back to the day of the Bloodbath, when he had plucked a stray lily leaf from nearly the same place. _Wanting you was never the problem_, he had said the moment before he had first kissed me; is this what he had wanted to do instead on that morning he had watched me so sharply while I worked, what he had wanted all along and couldn't have because he is a miner and I the mayor's daughter? Perhaps I have not made him see me differently over time, but rather opened a door he'd always believed locked. And yet he pushed me away a few minutes ago; I can't help but wonder if, despite the fact that he had other good reasons to do it, it also means that he still senses some wall between us. My hands fist involuntarily in his shirt as a hot wave of anger floods over me at the unfairness of it, the circumstances that make everything between us so much more complicated than it needs to be. It might not matter to me, but it _matters_ – he'd been right about that as much as I wished he wasn't – because the world we live in is real and cruel. And now, of all times, I have to return him to the hell that may not give him back to me again.

This sudden flux of emotion physically hurts, and I see him tilt his head in that way he has when he is asking a question without words.

"I hate that I have to send you back there," I whisper through clenched teeth. "I _hate_ it."

Something subtle about his demeanor changes, and there is the hint of a smile in his tone when Gale speaks again. "Well, we should be getting some things to change soon."

My heart drops into my stomach as the words hit home. This is more than just the reassurance he had given me before that he will keep coming back. But he is out the door and into the morning twilight like wind through the trees before I can breathe another word.

_Additional Author's Note (avoiding spoilers again…)_

_To those of you expecting a lemon this chapter – sorry guys. I hope you are not too disappointed. I'm aiming for realism and character development, so I guess you get… a lime? _


	39. Chapter 39

**Author's Note:**** Greetings to all my wonderful readers – if you're still out there. Sincerest apologies for temporarily abandoning my story. Thanks to all of you wonderful people who messaged me to make sure I had not died and to offer words of encouragement (Special thanks PPerfect; you're the best!) Long story short: I had to take a break about which I did not have much choice, got a little lazy, and then had a VERY hard time getting back into the swing of things. However, it feels really good to be back to writing again. This was originally going to be two chapters, but I didn't really like the first one by itself, so I reworked it into a single one. Next update should take less than a year.**

Every week it feels like the Saturdays get farther and farther apart. Just when I think that it can't possibly get worse, it does, and this is without a doubt the longest wait for a Saturday yet. And I last saw Gale on a weeknight. Spent the night with him, even. But then, it was the first time I had seen him come home with his uniform soaked in blood. Even though he chose not to tell me what events had lead to that state, the details didn't matter. No one should have to experience that, and next time it could be his own blood.

Although I suppose I would rather Gale show up covered in his own blood than not show up at all. Like the workers in District 8. If he comes home battered, injured, or traumatized, at least he's still _alive_.

That thought – that Gale coming home hurt would be the bright side - makes me so angry I feel sick, so I do my best to twist it into motivation for the rebellion. It's hard, though, since there is still so little to be done right now. So I wait. Some more.

I pass the time by reading newspapers with my mother when she feels up to it, and practicing nocturnes on the piano when she doesn't. I am certain that the stress of the present unknown has completely nullified any benefit that the success of our plans had given her health. It hurts to see the worry eat at her, so I remind myself that the last thing she needs is a daughter in the same state. I make an effort at lighter conversation with her – she needs to have some interaction that does not center on talk of death and injustice and war – and find it oddly awkward, as if we've completely forgotten how to do it. It reminds me a little of how hard it was to talk with Katniss at first, before we actually learned how to be friends. _Is that what Mom and have become – mere acquaintances? _

When I run out of things to distract myself, I go back to grappling with what to say to Gale. He had left me with words about change, and now I had to figure a way to get more information from him without divulging any. Part of me feels like using him like that might make me a bad person, but the other part justifies it with a long list of well-intentioned reasons for doing so, not the least of which being his own personal safety. Then I remember that I got used to being an awful (or, at least, questionable) person a while ago and the whole thing ought not bother me quite so much. Grocery shopping for peaches helps a little. Well, a lot actually. Especially since I manage to actually find one. It was one of only a handful of Capitol-imported items in the produce aisle, disappointingly under-ripe, and absurdly overpriced. But it was a peach. I put it in the basket on the kitchen counter and make a concerted effort never to look at it when anyone else is around.

….

I figure something is up when I get home and the boys politely say "hello," and then discretely shuffle to the door to go outside. My sister, who is discrete about exactly nothing, confirms my suspicions when she trots after them and says, "Mom said she wants to talk to you."

My initial reaction is that I ought to march right out the door with them and drag Rory back inside so we can settle this once and for all, but one look at my mother's expression tells me that would be an unwise decision. The little rat will have to come back eventually, and I'm really good at waiting. "What's Rory's problem now?" I ask, with perhaps a touch more attitude than I should.

"Actually," she says casually without looking up from the sudsy washtub that swallows her arms, "Rory hasn't made a peep." One hand lifts a bit of fabric from the water while the other fishes for the little brush she uses for stubborn stains. "I was wondering why you didn't come home last night." Finally, her eyes meet mine, eyebrows raised slightly as if expecting an immediate and perfectly reasonable response.

I don't know if I have ever been so terrified of my mother.

She shrugs a little, and continues with unnerving placidity, "I was a little worried about you, after the day you had, figured you'd be late, need some time, you know..." The brush scratches gently at the fabric as she speaks, and for some reason it seems so loud that I can't think. "So I waited up and waited up. It's been too cold to fall asleep in the meadow, so I thought about walking to the Everdeens', see if you were there…." _Scratch, scratch scratch, scratch_. "But then it was the middle of the night and I couldn't really go knocking on doors to find somebody to stay with the kids while I did that." _Scratch, scratch_. "So I didn't sleep all night and as soon as I got them to school this morning I went over to the mine and asked the foreman to make sure you clocked in." She pulls another shirt from the rumpled pile on the chair next to her, soaks it, and resumes brushing. _Scratch, scratch, scratch_. "That meant you were alive and not in jail, so I just figured I'd wait till you got home today to find out what happened." _Scratch, scratch_. "Feel free to chime in at any time."

I do the math as fast as I can. I could tell her the truth and end up stuck with a really uncomfortable conversation. I could lie, get caught when she asks Katniss' mother (or somebody else) to corroborate my story, and end up stuck with a really _really_ uncomfortable conversation. I opt to thread the needle and talk my way out of it with a little of both. "I stayed at the Mayor's house."

"Oh?" she says, as if genuinely surprised beneath the quiet ire. It would seem that she did in fact think that I had spent the night at the Everdeens'. Or, judging from the disapproval in her tone thus far, _specifically with Katniss._

"I was tired and miserable by the time I walked Madge back there, and she offered to let me rest awhile. I started to doze off when she went to check on her mom, so she gave me a blanket and told me I could stay." There. That was mostly true. And about as tame as it comes. She doesn't really need to know that the blanket was on Madge's bed. With Madge in it. While she was wearing only a nightdress. That is all entirely unnecessary information. Entirely unnecessary.

She seems to weigh my answer for a moment, then settle on believing me. I'm pretty sure it has more to do with believing that Madge is that nice, but I'll take it. "And you accepted without any thought for your family whatsoever. That someone might be concerned."

The remark offends me so deeply – she of _anyone_ ought to know that my family is my most sacred priority – that I snap at her before I can stop myself. "Look, what's this about? You didn't get this upset when I slept in the meadow that night."

She drops her work at last and points a finger sharply at me. When she speaks, her voice is frightneningly level. "That night I didn't wait up to know you were gone, because that night you didn't come home covered in someone else's blood. That night you didn't scare the hell out of me."

I sigh and drop my eyes. "I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "Everything was just so…. I didn't think about you worrying. Truly."

When she speaks again, her voice has lost a little of its hostility. "Listen, I understand. Maybe you don't think I do, but _I do_. All I ask is that _you_ understand there's a big difference between 'I'll probably late' and 'I might not be home.'"

I look back up at her and nod contritely.

She seems to accept my apology, and fishes another shirt out of the soapy water. I begin to think that I have escaped largely unscathed until she speaks again. "And be careful, Gale."

Oh, no. She's going there after all. "About what?" I ask as innocently as I can.

My mother looks at me like she knows I'm deliberately playing dumb. "You know about what.

It's clear she likes you, Gale. I don't know why, because you're barely civil to her, and _that's_ been an improvement. She's a nice girl and she-"

I interrupt immediately. "_Mom_." My head falls back while I try to digest the utter horror of this situation. I thought I'd avoided this pretty neatly. I should have known. My mother is pretty sharp. She just doesn't always advertise it. Which I guess makes her sharper. "It wasn't _like that_…." And it wasn't. At least not until morning, anyway.

"I'm not saying it was. But she might get her hopes up, with you actually letting her be nice to you. That's not fair to her. And it's not exactly fair to Katniss, either."

Good God it keeps getting worse. "Me and Katniss, we're not-"

"Fine," she says with non-negotiable Hawthorne finality. "I'll let it go. I've made my point." She pauses for a second and her hands still again. "But don't you dare _ever_ scare the hell out of me like that again." Finally, just barely and at the very end, her voice cracks. It breaks my heart. I cross the room and when I reach her she throws her arms around me. She chokes a little and only for a moment, and tears don't quite fall. It's the closest I've seen her come to crying since my father died. I add one more thing to my list of promises.

….

It turns out, of course, that perhaps I should have looked at the peach at least a few times. Saturday after dinner, Rose presents me and my mother with a homemade apple pie for dessert. She usually gets those kinds of things from the Mellark's bakery, but every so often she'll make something from scratch for us. It isn't quite as pretty as the ones the baker sells, but it smells every bit as good and it's straight out of the oven. The first forkful is no less than heavenly, and I ask her if she'll share her secret.

"I used that last peach," she says. "You slice it up really fine and stir it in with the apples."

I try very hard not to look disappointed. There was, after all, no reason for her not to think the peach wasn't community property. I inspect the filling on my plate, and sure enough there are tiny pale-orange slivers amongst the apples. "It's amazing. I'd have never thought to do that," I say. Even though I've never tried it, I would bet that Gale with peaches is a thousand times more amazing than apples with peaches.

I have just finished helping Rose with washing the dishes and she is getting ready to go home when I hear the front door open, and a few seconds later my father walks in. It is surprising that he would be home so early, especially since his work hours have been worse than usual of late.

"Well, hello there, stranger," Rose chuckles. "I was beginning to think you moved out."

They chat for a moment and make small talk – it _has_ been a long time since they have both been here at the same time – and though Dad is cheerful there is something impatient about him. I wonder what's going on.

Once she leaves, he beckons me into the parlor where Mom had been watching television. I find Haymitch Abernathy standing there too, disheveled and surly as ever. He and my mother, while not hostile to each other, do not make eye contact. I look at each of them in turn as my father continues to wave us on, now into the den. Mom is as curious as I am; the tiniest of smiles tugs at the corner of Haymitch's mouth.

The space is too small for four people, and I feel almost immediately claustrophobic at the proximity. Or maybe it's the smell of alcohol wafting off Haymitch's coat. Actually, it's probably leaking directly from his pores. He heads immediately for the decanters on the bookshelf, so I position myself strategically on the opposite side of the room. He glances up at me as he generously pours the amber liquid into a tumbler. "Running with the big dogs now, eh sweetheart?" he says.

It does feel oddly like some sort of momentous occasion, as if I have been officially recognized as part of the rebellion now that I've been invited to witness this type of clandestine meeting firsthand. I can only nod in response as the suspense steals my voice away. I look to my father, silently begging him to tell us what must obviously be very important news.

"Care to do the honors, Haymitch?" he says, the faintest hint of satisfaction coloring his tone.

The Victor of the Fiftieth Hunger Games takes a long sip from his glass and says without flourish, "Seneca Crane is dead."

My mouth falls open in shock for a second, disbelieving that this long-awaited moment has finally arrived, before I break into an ecstatic smile. My mother slumps over in her chair as if some enormous weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

"Heavensbee is in," Dad continues. "We still have our stylists of course. And a slew of other Victors willing to help us."

A sudden, familiar wave of anger hits me and the emotion is almost too much; I lean back against the wall for balance, and one hand covers my face as I become ashamed of the grin splitting my face. _What kind of world have they created that I continue to be elated when people die? _

I miss some of what they say as I try to gather myself, but my mother's soft voice is the one that pulls me back in. "We've got the Head Gamemaker in our pocket. Now the real work begins."

She is right. The closer we get to the summit, the more difficult and dangerous the climb becomes. They begin immediately discussing how to make the best use of District Thirteen – they have better technology and firepower than the rest of us but virtually no other resources, and a president who is often unwilling to compromise. Then, the next Hunger Games will be a Quarter Quell which will make devising a plan all the more difficult. We may have the Head Gamemaker on our side now, but Quarter Quells come with rules that he cannot control. How will we get another set of tributes to carry on what Katniss and Peeta started? How do we control the rebellious notions of other district citizens – like the ones in Eight – into a more coordinated effort and still keep it a secret?

I remember thinking that my father was foolish to have kept copies of so many notes. Now that I am here in the thick of this new development, I can appreciate the necessity. After a few minutes I rifle through the desk for a pencil and paper so I can scribble down the myriad details flying about.

We are scheming for what feels like _hours_ when my mother stops suddenly and cocks her head. "What's that?" she asks, straining for some sound. "Is someone at the door?"

Then I hear it, a faint knocking, almost impossible to pick up from here. _Gale!_ I feel guilty for having forgotten him, but only for a moment; tonight I had a good reason. "I'll see who it is," I offer. "I'll be right back."

I dash into the kitchen and sure enough I find Gale Hawthorne standing on my back porch. I don't get a chance to say anything because when he sees that no one is behind me to catch us he takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeply.

"God, I missed that," he mumbles against my lips while I brace two hands against his arms to keep my balance. He moves to kiss me again and I abruptly remember that it is a very bad time for this.

I push back at him gently, and he looks a touch confused. "I did, too, but we can't right now."

He frowns a little, and it feels good to know that I get him all off-kilter, too. I point over my shoulder into the house. "My dad is here. He came home early tonight," I whisper.

Gale takes a step back and nods in understanding. His gray eyes flicker back over my shoulder. "Do you want to go, or do you need to stay home?" he asks.

I bite my lip. I could probably escape at this point, but then again, I don't really want to. The things that are happening for the Rebellion right now are too important to miss. But I can't very well explain that to Gale.

"I want to go but… Mom's having a really bad night. I can't leave her. And Dad tries to help, but he's gone so much he doesn't really know what to do all the time."

He looks disappointed, but something about the way he looks at me says that he has deep respect for this choice. I feel despicably guilty that this time it's really just a ruse. "Another night then?"

I don't want to put off talking to him any longer; I already feel like the waiting has been taking years off my life. "If you're okay with a little later, I might be able to get away once things settle down. I still want to see you." It's all I can do not to throw my arms around him again.

Gale shifts his weight a little as he considers this, and he agrees. "Should I come back here, or do you want to meet me somewhere?" he asks.

I doubt I'll be alone later, but I don't really want to be wandering around town by myself late at night either. "You can come here. If someone besides me answers the door tell them Mrs. Everdeen sent something for my mom."

"And when I don't have something to give I should…." waves one hand as if waiting for a suggestion.

"Oh, rip up some moss out of the garden on your way up the walk. Dad would never know the difference. Just tell him she said I'd know what to do with it."

This makes him laugh. "Sounds like a plan."

I glance at the clock on the wall. "Okay. How about-"

"Who is it, Magpie?" My father's voice cuts me off from the parlor. Distantly, I recognize that he must have been concerned after I'd been having such a long conversation with whomever had come to the door. But the thing that consumes most of my attention is the dignity-shattering embarrassment at the fact that he has used my pet name in front of Gale Hawthorne.

I bite my tongue till it hurts and close my eyes for a moment, because I don't want to see Gale's expression. Not that it matters. I know exactly what it must look like anyway. I hear him snort a stifled laugh and say "Magpie?" as if to confirm that he heard correctly while I immediately begin plotting ways to murder my father.

I turn toward the doorway behind me just as Dad appears in it, pushing his glassed back up his nose and utterly oblivious that he may have humiliated his nearly-adult daughter. _ A pillow over his face once he's asleep? Rat poison in his tea? _"It's Gale. You know, Katniss' friend?"

He looks past me and squints as if trying to remember, and then the lights come on. "Oh right! Strawberries!"

Gale nods politely, one corner of his mouth still ticked upward in amusement. "I was just on my way over to the Everdeen's," he explains as he gestures vaguely in the direction of the Victor's Village. "Thought I'd see if Madge wanted to tag along since she visits so often." His face becomes more serious as he adds, "I'm sorry Mrs. Undersee isn't feeling well."

"Oh," Dad says, and thankfully he both buys Gale's story and plays along with mine. "Well, thank you. Tell them we all say hello."

"Will do." Gale manages to keep it together at least long enough for me to close the door, but I am absolutely certain that tears of laughter must be rolling down his face before he even reaches the garden gate.

_Great_, I think as I stalk back to the den. _He'll never let that one go. So much for a serious conversation later._

….

When I come back to the Undersee's house, Madge is waiting on the back porch. She is wrapped up in a wooly coat and holds a steaming cup of tea between her hands for warmth. I pause at the garden gate and whistle a bird-call at her – a mockingjay, because I doubt I could imitate her namesake convincingly. She gets the point though, because she simply rolls her eyes at me and remains silent.

I top the steps and sit down next to her. "So," I say, "a little bird told me you missed me while I was gone."

"Really?" she says. "An idiot told me you thought you were clever. Oh wait, that was you. Sorry." Madge takes a long sip of her tea, then picks up a second mug sitting beside her that I hadn't been able to see. She makes a show of slowly pouring the contents into the flower bed without looking at me and then calmly setting it back down on the concrete. Apparently, it was supposed to have been mine.

I wince. "Well aren't _your_ feathers ruffled."

"Somebody had some extra time to think of things to say, didn't he?" she says dryly as she gets to her feet and starts down the walk toward the back of the garden.

_Not nearly as much time as I've had to think of things to _do, I muse as I recall the kiss we'd shared earlier. Or the morning a few days ago…. "Oh, I got a whole list, Magpie," I say as I follow.

"Ugh, don't call me that!"

Her reaction only goads me on. I'm sure she knows this, but she continues to act annoyed anyway. Just like I decide to continue. "Why not? It's actually kind of cute," I tease.

"It's embarrassing. You're never going to let me live it down, are you?"

I give her a playful little shove. "I mean, you wouldn't want _me_ to come up with a nickname for you, would you?"

She pushes me back and I just catch the glimmer of a smile in the darkness. "God, no. No good could ever come of that."

I rush back at her and pick her up in my arms; a joyful squeak escapes her and she starts to laugh until our lips meet.

"Dammit, it's hard to stay mad at you…." She mutters.

I kiss her again, slower this time, as I lower her back to the ground. "I'm pretty good at getting myself out of trouble."

Her blue eyes – eerily washed out to silver in the dark – loose a little of their light and her smile fades a few degrees. "I… wanted to talk to you about that," she says earnestly.

"Madge, I told you before –"

"Listen to me first, Gale," she interrupts, and even out here away from the porch light I can tell she has that look about her that says she is not to be argued with. "The other day you said you were going to get things in the mine to change soon. What did you mean?" She is intense and matter of fact when she speaks, and I know that I don't have any choice but to participate in this discussion.

I try to give her an answer that will placate her without giving her more reason for concern. "I meant that you won't have to worry as much as you say you do. That we'll get some things to improve a little."

"What are you changing? How are you going to do it?" she asks immediately. She clearly has no intention of settling for vague responses.

But I'm not sure I'm willing to go into specifics with her. The last thing I want to do is give her reason to think I'd be reckless and endanger myself. "Madge, you don't have to-"

"Yes I do, Gale," she snaps, stubborn as ever. "I want to know what you're doing because you could use my help." The shock must show clearly on my face (this is far from what I expected) because she continues, "I don't work where you work or live where you live but I might have a very useful perspective for you. I read my father's newspapers and I see things on television that no one else gets to see. I can help you work out _how_ to do the things you want to do so no one gets hurt. Or at least reduce the chances of that happening."

I pause to soak this in for a moment. She makes a very valid point, a point that I had never really considered. And I admire the fire in her all over again. "They want to protest working conditions. Try to get safer equipment. Maybe better hours. Better wages. If they get a couple teams together, some of them want to strike."

Madge shakes her head furiously. "You can't let them do that," she says.

I bristle instantly at her reaction. This back-and-forth is not what I was hoping for.

"Listen," she demands. "Hear me out and you'll see what I mean. They're really cracking down in some of the other Districts. Getting really strict. The Capitol does that sometimes in the big districts, it's one of the ways they keep them under control. They mostly ignore us in Twelve because we're so small and there isn't much that concerns them here. But if they catch wind of anything, _anything_, that will change. It'll never work with just a few teams. They'll arrest every one of you and probably convict you all of treason, and replace you with the next set of people waiting for a job. It'll only have a chance if it's the _whole mine_."

She isn't wrong, I realize. It is entirely possible – even likely – that the Capitol we serve would consider four or five teams of miners completely disposable. It'll take _soon_ out of the equation, though; there's no way anyone could get the entire mine on board with that kind of plan quickly. But given enough time, it could happen.

"Is there someone trying to organize all this?" she asks.

"A few, actually, not just one," I say.

She shakes her head again. "I read about treason trials all the time. Ninety-nine percent of the time I'm _convinced_ it's just the Capitol setting it up to keep people afraid. But sometimes they're real. Every time, they track down the leaders and when they cut them out of the picture no one can or will do anything else. If there's any possible way, just try to get other workers to _network_; don't designate a person in charge and make them a target that can be taken out to ruin your plans…."

I am stunned and elated by what she has to say. Never in my wildest dreams – even after I realized that I loved her – did I ever imagine the Mayor's daughter giving advice on how to strike in the District Twelve Coal Mine. She has for so long now been my inspiration; now she is my coconspirator. We scheme late into the night while we huddle close to stay warm, mulling over details and probabilities, clinging to a hope that is slowly becoming brighter and more real. I had at first hoped for more of what we had started a few days ago but find that I am not at all disappointed. When I finally kiss her goodnight, I marvel at how she still makes me feel like rain, falling harder and faster, harder and faster. And how, as often as not, it doesn't even have a damn thing to do with the kiss.

_Footnote: Ever try peaches in your apple pie? Ohhhh Yeahhhh._


End file.
